


An exercise in compromise

by rozodejanero



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adamant Fortress (Dragon Age), Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, I like obscure side characters and i cannot lie, Orlesian Chevaliers, Orlesian Culture and Customs, Population Rylen, Rylen POV, Rylen is a blunt scotsman, Slow Burn, Struggletown, family dramas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22878751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rozodejanero/pseuds/rozodejanero
Summary: Rylen has always been a rational man. Some would say too rational, but that person is wrong.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford & Rylen, Rylen (Dragon Age)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello. This was a oneshot that kind of spiralled out of control, so i'm dividing it into chapters and posting it over a few weeks. It's kind of obscure re: pairings/characters so i don't expect a lot of readership, but if you're interested i hope you enjoy :)

A month after his arrival, he walks into the administration tent to find her.

She is leaning over his assigned desk, her hand on the edge of the wooden table and a pile of papers in front of her. A pile of _his_ papers, he realizes. When she looks up, she wears the driest interpretation of smile he think he has possibly seen. She seems utterly unconcerned at being caught snooping.

“Who are you?”

“General,” she greets, moving around the table and proffering a hand. “My name is Yvette Garis, I was assigned to assist you.”

He examines her. The hand, milky white and unblemished matches her coiffed white blond hair. Her lips are painted a gaudy shade of red, and she wears a mask, gleaming and silver. A _Lady_ Yvette Garis in his estimation and he almost wonders why she doesn’t use the title.

Instead, he wonders who, exactly, is fucking with him.

“Assist me how?”

Yvette glances between his face and her still outstretched hand. Her imitation smile doesn't waver and her hand remains still.

Rylen lets her wait.

“Public relations.” She says finally, dropping the hand, but with a hint of wry humor that under any other circumstance would have Rylen grinning. But he is tired, hungry and still smarting from Cullen’s idea of a ‘friendly spar’, and a nosy Orlesian noble woman is reading his mail. So he crosses his arms.

“I don’t need an assistant.”

“That’s not what was conveyed to me,” she says, a single finger tapping the papers on the table. He swallows a grimace, narrowing his eyes instead.

“I don’t need a minted Orlesian going through my things.” He clarifies. “So you can stop pretending to be charming and sod off.”

Yvette blinks slowly.

“I see,” she says, straightening. She is tall, he realizes now, they are almost eye to eye, and her build is perhaps a touch too muscular for any noble woman he's ever known.

He _almost_ wonders.

“I will tell the Commander his concerns were misplaced then.”

She begins to move past him.

“Wait,” he says dropping his head with a silent sigh. “Cullen assigned you to me?”

Yvette stops next to him.

“Mmmhm.”

He glances across at her. She is eyeing him from the corners of her clear blue eyes. And it is then that Rylen decides the Maker hates him. Because he’s never known Cullen to have a sense of humor, and he certainly doesn't make decisions lightly. Rylen weighs up a prolonged argument with the man against handing off some of his more menial tasks to this woman. He comes a swift, exhausting conclusion.

“Go fetch the requisition orders from Threnn,” he grumbles, dragging his feet over to his desk. “We can discuss particulars later. Don’t touch my things again without permission.”

“Noted.” She says and he doesn't need to see her to hear the satisfaction in her voice.  
  


~

  
Cullen Rutherford is many things, but mischievous is not one of them. When Rylen asks the former Templar if he thinks assigning Yvette to him is some kind of practical joke, the man looks at Rylen as if he just asked him where the hole in the sky came from.

“I thought you’d appreciate the assistance.” The commander explains after a moment, observing him over the edict Jim has just handed him. “You’re always complaining about the paperwork and we both know your time is better spent in the field. She came very highly recommended.”

Rylen snorts.

“By who? The Archdemon?”

“Lady Montilyet.” Cullen says, brows furrowed. He signs his name in a scrawl and hands the paper back to Jim. “She was quite insistent we find something for her. Don’t worry, apparently Lady Garis comes from a Chevalier family, so she should have some sense of what’s required of her.”

Rylen snorts.

“That would explain why she’s such a tit.”

Cullen looks at him for a long moment, long enough for Rylen to feel slightly embarrassed at his childishness. Finally, the Commander runs a hand through his blond hair and sighs deeply. “If you think she’s unsuitable though, I can find you another.”

Rylen sighs inwardly, despite his dislike of the woman, she hasn’t really done anything incompetent. Yet. He shakes his head and vows to live with it; the last thing he wants it to give Cullen another headache.

“I don’t like her,” he says. “but her work is fine. I’m sure I’ll get over it.”

The look of relief on Cullen’s face is palpable.

~

It takes a long, long time for Rylen to get over it.

~

Rylen realizes quickly that Yvette doesn’t say what she means. Instead, she uses looks, glances, pauses, implication - anything except Maker given words, to convey meaning. He tries to deescalate his frustration by reminding himself that she is, after all, Orlesian and raised on the rancid diet of courtly intrigue and the ‘grand’ games they all like to play. Yet, he finds it increasingly difficult to interpret what she might be saying.

Rylen is a simple mason’s son; he has never understood what is so grand about being underhand. He is direct, he is unambiguous. Yvette is as circuitous a woman as he has ever known and it frustrates him to no end. If it weren’t for her surprisingly blighted competence he’d probably take back Cullen’s initial offer of a replacement.

~

Two weeks after his conversation with Cullen, he enters the administration tent to find she’s rearranged his workspace into a cacophony of neat bundles and hanging messenger bags.

“I was a Knight-Captain for 6 years,” he snaps when she arrives minutes later. “I have a system.”

Yvette replies with her imitation smile. The one that hides her arrogance. He despises it.

“The Inquisition has grown quite remarkably Ser,” she observes. “How many soldiers would you say are now in Haven?”

Rylen purses his lips.

“Almost 600.”

“I’d say it’s closer to 700.”

“Why did you ask if you already knew the answer?” He says, following her movement across the tent with narrowed eyes. Yvette ignores him.

“I used to spend my summers in Brassard-manot, near Velrun,” she says instead. “There was a small Templar company stationed at the chantry nearby, barely 100 members. I remember one day my aunt coming back from Velrun with the most amusing story.”

Rylen leans back in his chair.

“Is this going anywhere Yvette,” he says, crossing his arms. The woman tosses her head in annoyance at his interruption but she doesn’t stop.

“We’d heard a week earlier that the Knight-Lieutenant had sent most of the company north to Val Foret for the Summerday celebrations there. Well, quite remarkably, my aunt had been walking outside the village and came across the very same Templar company on their way back from Val Foret. Can you imagine; nearly 100 tired hungry Templars, on the road for days, forced to turn back. And not just turn back, to continue.” Yvette smiles. “It turned out that the Knight-Lieutenant had mistaken the destination and having misplaced the original missive, neglected to confirm the assignment. The Knight-Commander had actually told him to send them south to Val _Firmin_.” Yvette laughs. Rylen looks up at her, annoyance bubbling in his chest.

“I’m not an idiot Yvette.” He says.

“Of course not,” says Yvette. “Neither was the Knight-Lieutenant, quite the opposite in fact.”

Rylen doesn't know what she is trying to placate him or not. Probably not.

“So you’ve rearranged my desk out of fear that I’ll sent Haven’s troops to Val Royeux instead of the Hinterlands?”

“Organization is control,” states Yvette, hands moving to her hips. “Without a clean house, even a clever man can lose control.”

Rylen looks at her for a long moment. It is the clearest he has even heard her speak. Oddly, her conviction amuses him.

“So I’m clever then?”

Yvette falters, ever so slightly.

“Now, I didn’t say that.”

Rylen resists the urge to laugh; he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. She has still ruined his desk and he has no desire to learn how to file missives that were perfectly happy sitting in piles. Instead, he punishes her by sending her to liaise with Seeker Penderghast about the latest Hinterlands operation. Penderghast has no love for Orlesian circuity and Yvette seems to have a particular dislike in being the subject of any kind of scorn.

Maybe, Rylen thinks, she will learn something.

~

Yvette learns very little, and if anything she doubles down on her existing bad habits. In response, Rylen spends the next fortnight pretending to be a man who has spontaneously lost the ability to interpret subtext. He explicitly ignores every thinly veiled hint, every circuitous suggestion, every pointed look and he gets very good at uttering the phrase “what’s your point?” with just the right amount of ignorance to make Yvette’s jaw clench. He can tell she is frustrated, but he finds he does not care, he even revels in it. Something childish in him compels him to the low road, and Maker is it ever sweet.

~

Their mutual frustration comes to a head when Yvette gives the cadets a day off over Wintersend. Rylen finds this out when a snowball hits the side of his head on the way back from the armory. Harritt has been complaining about the lack of good steel and everyone is tense after the Inquisitor’s failure in Val Royeaux. His head already hurts from the fumes of the furnace, so when the ice smacks against his temple, he has half a mind to spar the moron into the dirt. There is silence for a moment. Then the idiots mutter a string of excuses, most of which lead with the phrase: “Lieutenant Garis-” and what is left of Rylen’s patience unravels at his feet. He marches past the fools and and strides into the administration tent.

“What in blighted hells were you thinking?”

Yvette looks up from her seat. She has apparently predicted this reaction because all she does in response is raise an eyebrow.

“Is this about the cadets?”

“No, Yvette, it’s about lunch-” He snaps. “Of _course_ it’s about the cadets, what made you think you could sanction them a fucking day off?”

“I didn’t sanction anything,” Yvette snaps from her seat, facade breaking for just a brief second. “I asked you.”

Rylen heaves from his dressing down, scowling deeply at the woman before him. He works very hard to resist seizing the closest thing and tossing it across the tent.

“You hinted at it Yvette, that is not the same as asking!”

“Well I ‘hinted’ to Cullen and he seemed to understand.” She says. “You think I would just give everyone day off without permission?”

There is a pause. Rylen doesn’t know what surprises him most; that Yvette is apparently friendly enough with Cullen to call him Cullen, that Cullen was able to interpret what this ridiculous woman was saying or that Cullen actually agreed to a day off.

 _Cullen_. This is all his fault.

“I-,” he begins, but he can’t really argue with orders from his direct superior. Instead, he narrows his eyes. “Are we going to need another conversation about boundaries Yvette?”

“I didn’t want to bother you unnecessarily, Ser.” She mocks. “Since you find my presence so distasteful.”

“So you bestowed it on the Commander of the Inquisition.”

Yvette stands suddenly, ramrod, eyes hard.

“Have I done something in particular to offend you Ser?” She asks with a grimace that makes it seem like it physically pains her to ask such a direct question.

Rylen pauses. Yvette seems genuinely distressed behind her mask and he wonders suddenly it reveling in the low road was the smartest course to take. Perhaps, he thinks, Yvette truly doesn’t not realize how frustrating her mannerisms can be.

“Why are you here Yvette?” He asks. Yvette seems a little blindsided by the question.

“Ser?”

Rylen places a hand on his desk and looks at her evenly.

“I’m sick of this Yvette,” he says, gesturing between them. “I need you to talk to me, clearly, without all the bullshit subtext, without the riddles. I don’t like it, I won’t have it. You’re not in Orlais anymore, and there is no grand game you need to play here.” He takes a breath and continues quietly. “So, I want you to start now and just tell me plainly in Maker’s Common; why did you join the Inquisition?”

Yvette looks at him for a long moment. Some kind of understanding seems to dawn in her eyes.

“I want to do something useful with my life,” she says.

It is a general, but still far more honest answer than he expected. He thinks is possible Yvette is less invested in her facade than she lets on. Both this thought and her answer pique his curiosity, more than he wants to admit.

“Good,” he says. “Then we have a common goal.”

Abruptly, Yvette scoffs.

“Common goal,” she echos, her face contorting beneath her mask. “You were a knight-captain, now you are second-in-command of the Inquisition, how have you not done something useful with your life?”

“Usefulness is not a destination,” he says and Yvette’s mouth quirks.

“I thought you didn’t endorse riddles.”

“Oh _sod_ off.”

But Rylen grins, basking in this odd moment of clear understanding between them. It has been a long, tense month and it feels like a weight has been lifted all of a sudden. Quite abruptly he has to resist the urge to ask her more; why she doesn’t think theres anything useful for her to do in Orlais, why the Inquisition of all things. But this is enough for now though, he thinks. It will be a long time before he is ready to learn about Yvette’s presumably insane upbringing, and Yvette, he suspects has exhausted her daily limit for directness. Indeed, she sighs and he sees just how tired she looks beneath her mask.

“Please understand Ser,” she says. “I am not inclined toward speaking plainly, it may take some time.”

Rylen nods.

“I’m not asking you to abandon yourself,” he says. “Just be forthcoming with me at the very least. I promise you I not banish you from polite society if you say something ill-considered.”

He is rewarded with a polite smile.

“Who knows,” he says, with false levity. “Maybe you’ll even have some bright ideas you’ll wish to share.”

_  
~_

Yvette is correct when she says that it will take some time for her to speak plainly. Two weeks after their conversation and she is still more likely to make an obscure comment instead of actually voicing her thoughts. Rylen decides it is within his interest to enable her development by asking very pointed and clear questions whenever he suspects she has something to say. Privately, he thinks of it as ‘communication training’.

As if the Maker himself is playing some kind of practical joke, the first time Yvette independently voices her opinion unprompted is to scold him for his efforts.

“I’m not a child Ser,” she snaps one day.

Rylen blinks. He had been absentmindedly been asking her to clarify what she meant by ‘the cadets seem uninspired’.

“What?”

Yvette sighs and drops the quill in her hand directly into the bottle on her desk. It is an oddly deft move.

“You do not need to treat me as if I am a child,” she says. “I know you’re trying to help me, but asking me over an over what I mean like I am 6 years old is not helpful.”

Rylen raises an eyebrow.

“It’s just a general observation,” she clarifies with a shrug. “The cadets seem uninspired at the moment. There is not much beyond that, I _meant_ exactly what I said.”

“Ah,” Rylen says. He feels a little sheepish, but not that much. Yvette is getting better but she can still be insufferably obnoxious. “Then why mention it?”

Yvette looks at him, incredulity pulling at her brow.

“Do they not have _conversation_ in Starkhaven?” She says. When Rylen says nothing she waves a hand; “You know, small talk and such?”

“Of course there’s conversation in Starkhaven,” Rylen says reflexively. “But we generally reserve the small talk for special occasions.”

Yvette shakes her head, the most minute of smiles playing at her lips.

“I’ll save the small talk for your birthday then.”

Rylen grins. He leans back into his chair.

“See you’re learning.”  
  


~  
  


Yvette’s observation about cadet morale ends up being more salient than Rylen, or even she, initially gave it credit for. Over the ensuing weeks a combination of flagging infrastructure and a sense that progress has stalled due to the Inquisitor’s never-ending negotiations with the Mages begin to create problems. Factions arise within the companies. Skirmishes begin to pop up between not only Templars and the newly emancipated Mages, but Elves and Humans, Fereldens and Orlesians. Rylen has enough experience from Starkhaven and Kirkwall to handle the odd internal division. But even he has to admit that the people the Inquisitor tends to adopt are a far cry from his old Templar officers. They are older than his usual fare, and thus more set in their ways. They are uninitiated to the rigors of being soldiers and more often than not struggle to fall into the hierarchy of military life. All that binds them is the faith in the Herald and Rylen increasingly finds himself somewhat ill equipped to coordinate such a diverse group of individuals. He is a good captain but he is only one man and Cullen is under enough pressure as it is. This is his job, this is what he is here for and he is failing. Oddly, the antidote to the chaos comes in part from his enigmatic assistant and a series of complicated team-based war games.

“It was something we did at the Academie.” She explains. “I think if will help.”

From what he can gather, Yvette’s general idea is that team-based training will give common purpose and promote camaraderie among the different factions, even if just for a day.

“What does it involve?” He says, willing to try anything. Yvette holds up a red flag.

“Do Templars play capture the flag Ser?”

“That’s a game for children,” he says with a frown. Yvette holds up a sword.

“Not in Orlais.”

~

Yvette’s _capturez le drapeau_ is a huge success and against all his expectations she is only barely smug about it. Rather, it energizes her. She becomes more open about her opinions on operations, making helpful and sometimes less helpful suggestions here and there. Rylen is unsure exactly if he prefers this new Yvette; there is something unsettling about it. No longer can he justify his dislike of her on her manner alone, and if he’s being honest with himself he likes her more now than not. But there is still something about her that makes him feel off kilter.

It annoys him to no end.

~ _  
  
_

Cullen takes him aside one day and floats his intention to ween off Lyrium in the coming months. Rylen is surprised, but not shocked. Cullen had once or twice mentioned the idea in Kirkwall, but it has always been in passing, a vague comment, something Rylen has never taken seriously. Rylen wondered then and he wonders now if it is even possible, but Cullen seems determined enough.

“Things seem to be under control for the time being,” Cullen says, pacing a hole into the middle of the administration tent. He glances at Rylen’s pristinely organized desk. “Now is the time.”

Rylen clears his throat.

“With respect,” he says. “Why?”

Cullen stares intently at his hands for a moment.

“Don’t you ever resent it?” He says. “Resent the hold it has on you?”

“I’ve never thought about it in those terms,” Rylen says with a shrug. “It’s a tool.”

“A tool,” Cullen echoes, before switching his fervent gaze toward Rylen. “Our tool, or the Orders?”

Rylen has never imagined his life as anything other than a Templar, so he has never really viewed Lyrium as anything other than a means to an end. He understands that Cullen has opinions on what their defection to the Inquisition represents, but he finds himself struggling to appreciate the fervor with which Cullen wishes to shed his ‘leash’.

Then again, Rylen has never worked with anyone as batshit crazy as Meridith Stannard.

“You wish to be free from the Order’s influence.” He states.

“I wish to be free to make things better,” Cullen corrects him. “Not just for us, but for the Mages too.”

It is a good idea, in theory. But most ideas are.

“What do you need me to do?” Rylen asks.

Cullen smiles at him, a thankful lilt to his brow.

“Just keep an eye on me,” he says.

~  
  


In addition to Cullen’s revelation, Yvette decides that it is a good time to restructure the cadettraining. She pitches the overhaul to him like this:

  * Templar methods are valuable, but they are specialized in fighting magic.
  * There is too much reliance on brawn and not enough on correct body form.
  * This isolates some of the smaller cadets who could be utilized for their agility.
  * (Not to mention the mages)
  * Endurance training and correct recovery should play a greater role



On this last point she sighs. “Quite frankly Ser, the ignorance of some of these men and injury is astounding. There won’t always be a Mage around to fix everything.”

Rylen leans back in his chair and observes her.

“It’s not a _bad_ idea,” he says finally, thinking of the mountains of work they’d both have to do. ”But who exactly is going to spearhead this overhaul?”

For the first time since he’s known her Rylen watches as Yvette flushes. He blinks. After months of inscrutability, it is quite frankly endearing.

“I will,” she says, confident, despite her pink ears and Rylen cannot help grinning

“You.”

Yvette seems to miss-attribute his amusement to her ability because she frowns.

“Oui, why is that so amusing?”

Rylen shakes his head.

“It’s not,” he clarifies. “I’ve just never seen you blush before. I thought you had ah-like facepaint or whatever it is to stop such indecency.”

Yvette’s eyes narrow behind her mask.

“I’m not blushing.” She says reflexively.

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

Rylen decides to drop the matter with a gesture of surrender. Yvette is nothing if not stubborn and he is less interested in forcing her to admit to her pink cheeks than he is genuinely curious about her plan. Indeed, than he is curious about why it seems to inspire such a reaction. This revelation surprises him. So he nods, “As you say.”

“I have already mentioned it to Amelie, she seemed open to the idea.” She says. “I’ll lead the training for the first few weeks, then she and her lieutenants can take over.”

Rylen has never actually seen Yvette train but he knows she does. Amelie, an Orlesian half-elf captain who trains most of the cadets, spars with her in the early morning before the camp wakens. Amelie is as lively as Yvette is aloof, but often mentions to him how good it would be to have his aide put them through their paces. Apparently, Yvette is quite skilled with an arming sword.

Yet, despite this, and for all the progress Yvette has made, Rylen still can’t truly imagine her doing something as undignified as sweat.

“You’ll lead the training?”

“Oui,” she says and there is now something challenging in her eye. “You should come along Ser, maybe you’ll learn something.”

~

Yvette trains the same way she organizes; with ruthless efficiency and indomitable attention to detail. She begins nervously, Rylen knows her tells well enough by now, conscious of whether the others will view her as an authority. But before the end of the first day it is clear she is more than qualified. He enters the Singing Maiden sore in places he hasn’t been in years and ready to sleep for a week. Cullen eyes him as he slouches over their table.

“I asked Josephine about her background.” He says, sipping his stein with thoughtful precision. “Did you know she actually _trained_ as a Chevalier?”

Rylen shakes his head.

“Why isn’t she one then?” He grumbles. “Would have saved me a lot of grief.”

Cullen shrugs.

“Josephine wouldn’t say,” he says.

Rylen rolls his eyes and hoofs down his food. He wonders what other significant things he doesn’t know about Yvette.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rylen would have failed geography

Haven happens and Rylen grieves over lost friends and his lost Order. Grotesque images of his corrupted brothers and sisters come unbidden to his mind when he sleeps and he wonders if there is another life where he is like them; distorted by their faith and conviction. He wonders about Cullen and how intently he talks about stopping his supply for good. He wonders, maybe, if Cullen is right; if Lyrium really is a leash.

For the first time, in a long time, he spends a frigid night in camp getting quietly wasted. He wakes up the next day and vows to try harder.

On a snowy evening he catches Yvette with puffy eyes and shaking hands, grasping a long list of the casualties. Rylen is experienced with loss but the last thing he wants to be is a confidant. Instead, he assigns her a long list of complicated tasks and pulls Josephine aside.

By the time they find the Inquisitor and reach Skyhold, Yvette's eyes are focused again.

~

Rylen taps his boot against Cullen’s makeshift desk to remove the lingering snowfall from his boot.

“Anywhere, as long as it’s warmer than this.” He says. Cullen chuckles before pointing toward the bottom left corner of his map of Thedas.

“The Western Approach,” he says. “A desert essentially, so you’re covered on that front.”

Rylen considers this as he peers at the parchment. He is not so up do date with his Thedosian geography but the name rings a bell.

“What are our intentions there?”

“Scouting the region for Venatori, with Celene’s permission of course.” Cullen says with a sigh. “We’ve also received intelligence about an old Warden keep they’re using as a base of operations. The overall goal is to take that so we can establish a foothold in the area. The Herald is following up on a contact in Crestwood at the moment but he may accompany the party if he gets back in time.”

“The Herald?” Rylen furrows his brow. The Inquisitor typically preferred traveling light, avoiding large parties on the road where possible. “What’s his interest in the area?”

“The usual,” Cullen shrugs. “But I think he might have some Grey Warden leads to follow up on.”

Rylen hums. Grey Wardens always put him on edge.

Cullen looks across at him, misinterpreting his frown.

“Is this okay?” He asks. “I can think of no one I’d rather have commanding our hold in the West but I know it was a big decision to move further from you family, I don’t want to assign you somewhere that will make things harder.”

Rylen clears his throat, self-consciousness settling over him like a second skin. He thinks of his father, bed bound, of Ella, giving the best years of her life to care for him.

“Whats a few more miles,” he says with a false levity that he knows Cullen will see right through. “As long as I’m being paid, the arrangement remains the same.”

Cullen hums.

“Well,” he says. “As long as you’re sure.”

"I am."

Rylen runs a hand over his chin. He can tell Cullen has not shaved that morning. The bags under his eyes are growing darker each day. Rylen knows he should ask, knows he should offer his ear. _Just keep an eye on me._ He doesn’t want to put Cullen on the spot, but they _are_ friends. Cullen has done the same for him.

“So, ah-how are you…handling things?” Rylen says finally. Cullen looks at him quizzically.

“What?”

“Ah- I mean with the, ah-” Rylen lowers his voice slightly, aware of the people milling around the courtyard. “-Lyrium.”

Cullen blinks, then smiles ruefully.

“Right, yeah,” he sighs, glancing around a little. “To be frank Rylen, it’s a blighted nightmare.”

Rylen nods slowly. Unsure what to say, but fortunately Cullen continues.

“It’s like all the stories you hear, you know about the ones who get cut off,” he says. “I can hardly sleep most nights, and my memories shot half the time. I keep having to write things down so I don’t forget.”

Rylen watches the other man intently, he thinks if he concentrates hard enough, maybe he’ll understand why Cullen is torturing himself so. He thinks back to Haven, to his nightmares. Is this torture really worth Cullen’s idea of freedom?

“Well, you can’t tell,” he says, trying to reassure him.

“You noticed.”

“Yeah, but I know you’re doing it.” Rylen says. Cullen looks at him with a sidelong glance.

“Your Lieutenant noticed.”

At this, Rylen coughs in surprise.

“What?”

“She said I seemed off and asked me if anything was the matter.” Cullen sighs. “I mean it was quite nice of her to even notice, but what do I say to that?”

“You didn’t tell her did you?”

Cullen shakes his head.

“No, I just said I was having trouble sleeping,” he says. “She offered to get me some tea from Adan. I said not to bother but she did anyway.”

“Yes,” Rylen grouses. “She is a bit like that.”

Cullen stares at him then, a dangerously shrewd expression on his face.

“Why do you dislike her so much?” He asks in a neutral tone. “She’s actually quite a nice woman.”

“I don’t _dis_ -like her,” Rylen says. “I just-she _annoys_ me. You know, with her habits, like how she’s incessantly organizing my things and her way of speaking; she’s always questioning me, but not like actually questioning me, just giving me these _looks_ Cullen.” He sighs. “I mean sure she’s highly competent and you know me, I appreciate that, but at what cost?”

Cullen nods.

“Right.” He says, and there is far too much amusement dancing in his eyes for Rylen to feel entirely comfortable.

  
~  
  


To Rylen's great surprise Yvette volunteers assignment to the Western Approach with the rest of his regiment. It is not that he considers her weak or unable to handle living rough or working hard, Haven has spoken to that. Rather, he had assumed someone of her standing would jump at the chance to sleep within a castle’s walls, with warm sheets and fireplaces, to mix it with the ever growing entourage of courtiers Lady Montilyet has been cultivating.

"I don't like the cold," Yvette explains as they shiver in the courtyard, waiting for Cullen to emerge from his War Table meeting.

"I thought you were from the Highlands." He says.

Yvette gives him a look.

“Lake Celestine is in the _Heartlands_."

He watches as she blows a puff of air into the frigid air. He shrugs.

"It’s all the same to me.” He says, swinging a boot through the snow at their feet. “We don't get snow in Starkhaven, but I can't say i like it that much. Seems to just get in the way."

Yvette laughs.

“My mother loved snow,” she muses, regret lacing her tone. “She purchased an entire estate near Sarhnia just for that. I barely saw her in the winter.”

An entire estate indeed. Rylen thinks of his father, his brothers and sisters, packed into their small townhouse in the outer ring. Not for the first time he thinks of how different he and Yvette truly are. But for the first time it makes him feel sad, not frustrated. Perhaps it is the cold going to his head, but he is suddenly curious.

“Do you miss her?”

There is a pause.

“Yes and no,” says Yvette. If she is surprised by his uncharacteristic question, she doesn’t let it show. “I loved her, but I didn’t know her very well.”

Rylen hums.

“I never knew my mother,” he says.

He _is_ surprised at his sudden openness; it just slips out. Yvette’s look is both curious and empathetic.

“She died in childbirth?” She ventures and Rylen nods.

“I don’t think my father has ever quite got over it.” He rubs his chin. “But lucky for us both, there were more than a few siblings to take care of me.”

Yvette nods, but there is sadness in her eyes. Rylen has never felt deprived without his mother. Some people react badly to his apathy but it would be an insult, he thinks, to the family he does have to feel second changed. It would be an insult to his father to pity him. He’d go as so far to say that he’s never needed a mother, but he’s not sure if that’s quite true.

“It sounds like you had a good family,” Yvette says.

“I still do,” Rylen says. He thinks of his father, his siblings. “For the most part.”

There is a pause, then Yvette says quietly; “Do you mind?”

He turns to her, confused.

“Do I mind what?” 

“Me,” she explains. “Volunteering for the Approach I mean.”

He observes her. It is a rare moment of vulnerability. For all her circuity, Yvette has always come across as quietly confident. He assumes this is a by product of her upbringing. Seeing her unsure seems profoundly wrong, and something worms uncomfortably in his stomach at the thought that he has inspired such self doubt.

“Why do you think I would mind?”

Yvette’s shoulder heaves with a silent breath.

“I think things have been working well between us recently, despite it all.” She says. “But I know you find me difficult; I wouldn’t want to rob you of a chance to be rid of me.”

Rylen looks at her for a long moment. She barely meets his eyes, opting instead for a close scrutiny of his chin.

“Yvette,” he says as evenly as he can, because he means what he’s about to say, though it somewhat pains him to say it. “You may be the most annoying lieutenant aide I’ve ever had, but if you hadn’t volunteered, I would have requested you anyway.”

There is a shout and he looks up as Cullen strides across the courtyard, the Inquisitor and Blackwall trailing behind him. It would seem the elf is to join them after all.

From the corner of his eye Rylen knows Yvette is looking at him, properly this time.

He pointedly ignores whatever expression is on her face.

~

2 days before he is due to take 80 men west into Orlais, Lady Josephine Montilyet corners him in the barracks.

“General,” she greets, her golden finery gleaming in the torchlight. “A word, if you please.”

Rylen nods and directs the woman to a quiet corner.

“How can I help you, Lady Montilyet?”

“I realize this is somewhat irregular but I wanted to ask you if you could do me a favor.” She says. “It’s about your aide.”

Rylen’s curiosity immediately piques. Things have been good between him and Yvette recently, he might even go so far as to say friendly. Even since their mutual confessions in the courtyard Yvette has seemed less aloof and Rylen has found himself more than once going over her words in his head. Her vulnerability has made him wonder about how she views her position within the Inquisition.

“Yvette?” He says, despite the fact he currently has only one aide.

Josephine nods, fidgeting just slightly with the edges of her board.

“She’s told me she’d going to the approach,” Josephine says. “I advised her against it.”

Rylen blinks.

“You did? Why?”

Josephine clears her throat delicately.

“I haven’t always know Yvette well,” she says. “But we have become closer during both our time here and I am of the opinion that it’s best if she stays as far away from Orlais as possible.”

Rylen furrows his brow.

“Why do you think that?”

A look of worry settles upon Josephine’s lovely features.

“How much has Yvette told you about her family General?” She asks.

“Not much,” he says. “Only that her mother is dead.”

Josephine looks at him carefully. She appears to be deciding how much to tell him. Rylen wonders how bad it could possibly be.

“Yvette speaks quite highly of you, did you know that?” She says. Rylen blinks, mildly taken aback at this revelation. He shakes his head.

“I’ve never got the impression that she is particularly fond of me.”

“Oh I never said she was fond of you,” Josephine says with an amused lilt to her voice and a pull at the corner of her mouth. “But she does respect you.”

Rylen suddenly feels both bafflingly self-conscious and pleased at the same time. He frowns.

“With all due respect Lady Montilyet, what does this have to do with your favor?”

This question apparently amuses Josephine because she smiles knowingly.

“I suppose I just wanted to see if I was able to butter you up a little,” she says. “But Yvette was right, you are a very forthright man.”

Rylen doesn’t really now what to say to this but he knows what he’d say to Yvette, so he waits expectantly. Josephine chuckles, then sighs, expression changing back to the one of worry she wore when she first approached him.

“All I will say is that there are certain people in Orlais that might not have Yvette’s best interests in mind. My favor is to ask if you could watch out for her.”

Rylen crosses his arms.

“How do you mean?” He asks. ”Because, like I say, we’re not friends.”

“I only mean to just keep an eye on her, as her superior.” Josephine says. “Orlais can be a treacherous place for someone who doesn’t subscribe to their preordained path.”

Rylen considers this. It is as obscure and cryptic as something Yvette would say. Maybe circuity is a nobility thing, and not exclusively an Orlesian thing.

“Right.”

Josephine looks at him, apparently unwilling to surrender more information, but nevertheless expectant of an answer. Rylen knows theres really only one correct one.

“Of course,” he says. “She is a good aide, and I respect her abilities. I wouldn’t want to see her come to harm.”

As Josephine smiles, Rylen realizes that he really does mean every word.

~

The journey to The Approach is as long as it is arduous, but it is for the most part uneventful. They are blessed with the company of the Inquisitor and his selected companions. Rylen likes them well enough and the Inquisitor is certainly a force to be reckoned with. He is surrounded with all of his most competent captains, men and women who he knows he can _achieve_ something with. However, there is one addition to the party that makes Rylen question the Inquisitor’s judgment. That some aspect of their mission that predicated on Marian Hawke’s intelligence, Rylen knew, what he didn’t know was that the woman herself would be joining them.

It is, quite frankly, an insult.

Every time Rylen claps eyes on her head of raven hair and deep-set eyes, he is reminded of the destruction left behind in her wake. Destruction she abandoned when she disappeared and left people like Cullen to desperately pick up the pieces. And it’s not just him. Murmurs arise with a few of his Marcher brethren, veterans of Kirkwall. _Dangerous apostate_ , they murmur. _Maleficarum_.

Rylen tries to mediate the dissent but it is half hearted at best. Hawke’s presence is so irksome that one day he finds himself scowling so deeply at her that _Amelie_ asks if he is okay.

No, Rylen thinks, he is not okay.

~

“So you’re the Knight-Captain from Starkhaven eh?” Hawke says, sidling into step beside him on the road one day. He eyes her suspiciously. He knew he would not be able to avoid her forever, but he is a little surprised at her gall at approaching him so causally. She clearly knows who he is.

“General,” he corrects, wishing to be anywhere else. “And you’re the one who destroyed Kirkwall’s chantry.”

Hawke seems to take this in her stride, smiling ruefully.

“Unfortunate business that,” she says, entirely too flippantly for his tastes. “Mahanon informed me you were heavily involved in the aid efforts afterward.”

Rylen frowns, a little scandalized at the use of the Inquisitor’s first name.

“There was a lot of mess to clean up.” He says, trying to measure the ice in his tone. “Thanks to you.”

They walk in silence for a few moments.

“My gratitude for your efforts,” The Champion says after a minute. Her tone is quiet, melancholy. “But I certainly don’t revel in the destruction I caused.”

Rylen hums his disapproval.

“That may well be,” he says. “It doesn’t mean I approve of your methods, or decisions.”

“I would be surprised if you did,” she says, examining his profile, something resigned in her tone. “You are a Templar, or you were I suppose.”

Rylen turns to look at her with narrowed eyes.

“What does that mean?”

Hawke’s jaw is hard. It is clear, even through his anger, that she is genuinely remorseful. But there is pity too, and it angers him further. What is there in him, for her to pity?

“You are friends with Cullen, yes?” She asks and Rylen nods. “Then you have some idea of the abuses of Meredith Stannard.”

“I don’t endorse Stannard, if that’s what your implying.”

“Of course not.” She pauses. “But you strike me as a reasonable sort of man _General_. Tell me, would you Tranquil a man for sending a letter to his sweetheart?”

“No, that is barbaric.”

“Well, that’s the kind of barbarity I was fighting against from the very start, not just from Stannard, from the institution _, your_ institution. I’m sure you can appreciate the concept of a no-win scenario, but some things are too wrong not to stand up against.”

“I can,” he says. “But there is a difference between losing well and losing badly.”

Hawke hums in a incredulous tone.

“You are here,” she observes. “So you obviously don’t wish to serve the Order anymore.”

“I am not about to share the reasons for my defection with _you_ Serah.” He says, recognizing a probe when he hears one. “And I’m not sure why you seem eager to justify your decisions to me, I’m not the one you owe anything to.”

Hawk grumbles.

“Yeah, well,” Hawke says. “Your scowls were beginning to give me a headache.”

“If your constitution is that fragile, it’s a wonder you’re still alive.”

Hawke huffs out a laugh; a small, slightly surprised thing, that niggles at Rylens already unraveling patience. What kind of a woman can laugh after being treated so contemptuously? Does she take nothing seriously?

“Look,” Hawke says. “I’m just trying to clear the air. I’m not trying to form a blighted friendship circle where we air out all our grievances and become best friends.“

“I don’t require the air to be clear in order to be a professional.” Rylen says and Hawke gives him an incredulous look.

“Is that right?” She says, words dripping with sarcasm. “Quite the skill you have there.”

“Unlike some people, I am capable of making measured, sensible decisions.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Hawke says and stops dead. Rylen lets out a silent sigh and moves to the side of the road.

“Yes, I am,” he says, glancing at the rest of the company as they pass by, obviously curious about the exchange. “Very well, if you want to clear then lets clear the air; I think you are a careless, erratic and dangerous _liability_. You brought Kirkwall to its knees with your decisions and the when it needed someone to hold it together you disappeared.”

It is Hawke’s turn to scowl.

“You have no idea,” she says, in a low voice, advancing on him with a pointed finger, her hand crackling just enough for Rylen to prepare himself for a silence. “ _No. Idea._ How bad it was, none, okay? So before you lecture me on my decisions General, perhaps you should take some responsibility for the actions of your brethren okay? Do you know how long it took _Cullen_ to wake up to Meredith’s abhorrent behavior? Do you know why I left when I did? No one-” She pokes a finger into his breastplate and Rylen feels the shock through his leathers. “ _-no one,_ was in the right. I did my best.” She leans away from him. “I pray that you never find yourself in a situation where you have to choose between death and more death, because I would certainly be interested to see how you make a ‘sensible’ decision then.”

Hawke narrows her eyes at him for a moment, her jaw hard. Then, apparently satisfied her point has gotten across, or perhaps just fed up with his presence, she pushes past him to join the rear of the company.

Rylen takes a minute to process her monologue. The hair on his neck stands on end.

“Is there going to be a problem?”

He turns his head to see the dark eyes of the Inquisitor watching him carefully from atop his Halla. The elf, a slight thing, cocks his head to one side. Despite the Inquisitor being a good 10 years his junior Rylen feels distinctly like a small child.

“No your Worship,” Rylen says. “Hawke and I were just…clearing the air.”

“Ah,” the elf says. “So, that’s why Marian looks like she’s about to set something on fire.”

Rylen given the Inquisitor an incredulous look.

“With respect your Worship,” he sighs, abandoning the rules of military hierarchy drummed into him over the years. “Why is she here?”

The Inquisitor sighs, as if he knew this would come up at some point. Of course it would, Rylen thinks, the elf would be a fool to think the unannounced presence of Marian Hawke would not cause a stir in a company with Marchers.

“Inquisitor is fine General,” the elf says, hopping down from his Halla’s back with graceful ease. He mutters some words to the creature, who whinnies and starts trotting to catch up with the others. “’Your worship’ makes me feel like I’m the Divine, and you can imagine how odd _that_ feels when I’m really a Dalish heretic.”

He grins and Rylen’s bad mood deflates, just a little. The Inquisitor gestures for them start walking again.

“I regret that I have been unforthcoming with you about some aspects of this mission.” The Inquisitor admits, rubbing his neck. “Cullen speaks very highly of you and I do not wish to put you out.”

Rylen hums.

“I would have appreciated some notice,” he says. “The name Marian Hawke does not inspire positive feelings among me and some of my men.”

“I realize that now,” the Inquisitor says with some measure of regret. “And I apologize for it. The short of it is that there is a Grey Warden threat, and you know Grey Wardens, all very hush hush. Marian is here because she knows more about how Corepheyus and the Wardens are connected than any of us right now. I-” he clears his throat. “- _We_ need her.”

Rylen observes the boy in front of him, because he _is_ a boy. Barely in his twenties, Mahanon Lavellan should, by rights be with his clan, shouldering a mere fraction of the responsibility he now has. The mark on the young elf’s hand flickers and Rylen’s gaze lingers on it. He has always been good at putting aside his emotions in service of the greater good.

“Thankyou for your candor Inquisitor,” he says, looking up. “I assure you Hawke and I will not be a problem, not from my side at least. I will endeavor to mediate the matter with my men.”

The Inquisitor smiles with such relief that Rylen almost finds himself believing his own words.

~

Halfway between Verchiel and Montissmard they pick up a Grey Warden named Stroud.

Unlike Hawke, this traveling companion is not a surprise. The Inquisitor makes good on his apology and helpfully informs Rylen of their newest traveling companion days before they come into contact. It is a pity that he does not tell Rylen _why_ they seemingly require a Grey Warden. But Rylen doesn’t question it. What he _does_ question is the inordinate amount Yvette, of all people, spends with Warden Stroud, muttering in clipped Orlesian and laughing.

It is not that this _bothers_ Rylen for any particular reason, no indeed, but he wonders what the pair could possibly have in common. Stroud is blunt, uncharismatic and seems to have no interest in anything unrelated to Warden affairs. Not that Rylen can necessarily fault him for this. It just surprises him that Yvette finds this interesting.

Later, he tries and fails, to sound casual when he questions her about it.

“He was at the Academie when I was, but much older.” Yvette explains as she sorts through the supply lists. “He was going to join my father’s company.”

They are both working into the night, grateful for the peace of a well guarded camp. If she finds his questioning strange she doesn’t let on.

“We didn’t know each other at all really but it’s nice to talk with someone from home.”

Rylen nods as he scrawls out a note for Cullen. He doesn’t quite understand how Stroud classifies as ‘from home’ when the man’s been effectively exiled for 20 years.

“Amelie said his family was assassinated. That’s why he joined.”

“They were,” she says. “It all caused a great stir, not that it was ever officially acknowledged.”

Rylen looks up at this comment.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s the Game,” Yvette says, waving her hand. “No one ever came out and said is family was killed, but they were.”

“Ah,” Rylen says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes into oblivion. “The _Game_.”

Yvette, to her credit, smiles wryly.

“Indeed,” she says, then without warning she raises an eyebrow at him. “Why the interest?”

Rylen scrambles for a reasonable excuse, he settles on the truth.

“I- you were just very friendly, that’s all.” He says.

“You wondered what we could possibly have in common,” she says. “Besides you know, the Orlesian thing.”

Rylen nods mutely. The trick Yvette conducts, where she reads his mind, is a disconcerting one.

“He is kind of handsome too,” she says, a mischievous glint behind her mask. “Don’t you think?”

Rylen splutters.

He thinks of Stroud’s square jaw, his blue eyes, his _disgraceful_ facial hair.

“I’m not one for a mustache,” he finally coughs out, sure his ears are flaming red. Yvette laughs.

“Good to know,” she says, grinning.

They slip into an easy silence for a moment. Rylen shakes his head, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable feeling of tightness creeping up his throat. She is teasing him, he decides, but somehow it just make him feel worse. He realizes that he doesn’t quite know how to interact with her on a non-professional level, it's hard enough interacting with people he feels very clearly about as it is. This knowledge doesn’t make him feel better about him embarrassment.

To distract himself he decides to ask the question hes been burning to ask since the first day he saw her fight. A very unprofessional question.

“You said you were ‘at’ the Academie.” He begins and Yvette looks up. “Why aren’t you a Chevalier? Were you not there to train? You’re certainly capable enough.”

Yvette’s smile drops as quickly as a staggered man. She clears her throat and swallows.

“I was at the Academie to train, “ she says through a hard jaw, nodding. “But I-ah, I never completed the training.”

Rylen wonders at the sudden tension permeating Yvette’s frame.

“You didn’t graduate? Pass a test?” He says, suddenly realizing he has no idea how one even becomes a Chevalier. “Is that how it works?”

Yvette lets out a huff of a laugh and turns back to her work.

“Pass a test,” she echoes cryptically, staring at the supply lists. “I can’t say the test was actually passable to begin with, but it was a little like that I suppose.”

Rylen waits for her to elaborate but she just continues to stare at the papers.

“Yvette?”

She blinks and looks at him.

“Sorry Ser,” she says, pointing at the finished note. “Is this all? I need to go check the supplies for tomorrow.”

Rylen nods slowly and lets her leave. Yvette has always been cryptic but shes never outright ignored a subject before. He watches her as she goes, a curious and confused tightness in his chest.  
  


~  
  


It is not until they take Griffin Wing Keep that Rylen realizes just how popular Yvette has become with the members of the company. During the siege she takes a harsh blow to her ribs, leaving her incapacitated. Afterward, more than a dozen soldiers Rylen barely recognizes ask her if she is okay. Yvette smiles and assure each one that she is fine, before inquiring after their own relative condition. Rylen chalks this up to well-trained social graces. He will reluctantly admit that she has always had a deft hand with people and she seems, now, completely charming.

Rylen thinks about that Cullen said before he left Skyhold and wonders if maybe she always was. But as he watches her in the aftermath of the siege, it occurs to him that perhaps it is because now Yvette seems to truly care about the cause. She smiles at people with openness; gone is the aloofness. If she didn’t wear the mask, she could easily pass for one of them. He comments on it when he visits her in the makeshift infirmary.

“Do you remember when I told you that I wanted to do something with my life?” She says, and Rylen nods. “Well I finally feel like maybe I am.”

~

Rylen doesn't immediately recognize Yvette the first time he sees her without her trimmings. Her silver mask is, by now, a vital part of his image of her. So, when she walks into the makeshift administration tent carrying a bundle of papers and looking like a regular person, he blinks and tries to remember if Cullen sent him a new aide.

“Ser?” She cocks her head at him.

“Yvette?”

He pauses, blindsided for a moment. Yvette, clearly aware of what is causing his slack jawed reaction, furrows her brows.

“It’s too hot,” she bemoans, but there is something tight in her performance. “My face has been melting ever since we passed into the Approach proper.”

Rylen regains his composure, shifting in his chair, a little unsettled by his reaction. He takes the chance to examine her face in full.

Yvette had been scaling back the paint on her face over the past few months. But the full lack of mask reveals freckles that make her features appear softer, more feminine. The biggest reveal however, is her nose, a sharp aquiline shape, like his, but clearly broken at some point in her past.

“You look-”

Yvette glances away.

“-like a person.” He finishes lamely. But what is he meant to say? He has eyes, and she is apparently a comely woman. But he certainly doesn’t want to make things _weird_ between them. She is still, after all, his subordinate. He is a professional.

“Oh,” she says looking back at him with a quirk in her lip. There is an odd lilt of relief in her voice. “That’s good, father always said I look like a bird.”

“He was referring to your nose,” Rylen states, on this matter he can relate.

“No Rylen, he was referring to my wings,” Yvette says with a roll of her eyes. Rylen, he thinks. It is indeed a morning of firsts. Has she used his name before? He can’t recall.

Yvette places the batch of messages on the table beside him and scratches at her chin.

“It feels very odd,” she admits. “Naked almost.”

There is something slightly titillating in hearing Yvette utter the word naked.

“I can imagine,” he grits out, violently wrestling his errant mind back into line. Yvette looks alarmed at whatever expression he knows much be contorting his face.

“Are you okay?” She says, her brows furrowing. “I can put it back on if it’s too strange.”

Rylen clears his throat. He takes a breath. Stop being a fool, he thinks.

“Please do _not_ put that ridiculous thing back on, I have despised it ever since it graced my presence.” He says, meaning every word. Then, willing back what semblance of composure he has left, he grins at her. “But could you please summon Amelie? I need to settle a bet.”

Yvette narrows her eyes at him.

“A bet?”

Rylen nods.

“Just a little wager to see how long you’d last.” He says. “Her idea, she thought you’d hold out.”

“You bet-” she says, looking scandalized. _“-against_ me?”

“Not against you,” he says, chuckling, enjoying the now unobstructed indignation on her face. It gives him a comforting sense of control. “I knew you were smart enough to come to your senses sooner rather than later. If anything, I had faith in your _intelligence_.”

“Maker’s Breath,” Yvette exhales. She pauses for a moment, then leans closer, looming over him with both hands on the desk. Rylen would be lying to himself if he said it wasn’t a little thrilling. “I want half of that wager.”

Rylen barks out a laugh.

“Ha!” He exclaims, feeling slightly heady. “That’s not how it works Yvette.”

“Oh I think it is,” Yvette hisses. “Unless you want me to put the thing back on.”

Good humor trickling away, Rylen narrows his eyes.

“You wouldn’t.”

“If it saw you lose, I most certainly would.”

Rylen stares her down for a moment. He comes to the swift conclusion that Yvette would absolutely would suffer the discomfort of her mask if it meant showing him up.

“Fine.” He concedes. “You can take half.”

“Excellent.” She says, straightening in satisfaction. “Now,” she sliding the letters forward on the desk. “Before I got get Amelie, there are some messages you need to look at before the scouts report.”

Rylen takes them and settles in for the morning. Amelie comes and goes with much fanfare and indignation, the scouts come and deliver their report and the day carries on as it usually does. It is a normal, run-of-the-mill day.

Yet, as Rylen watches Yvette’s face come and go, he cant help but feel something has shifted.

It isn’t her mask.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love me a bit of denial

Rylen has almost forgotten about Josephine’s cryptic warning until he overhears two Orlesian merchants gossiping near the gatehouse one morning. The sun is barely peeking above the dunes outside. He yawns as he leans against the cool stone brick and taps the corner of the sparing ring impatiently with the toe of his boot. The sounds of the lower level waking up drift through his consciousness. Amongst the milieu, his brain picks out the lyrical lilt of an Orlesian couple arguing.

“I’m serious,” says the male voice. “It’s her.”

“It can’t be her Jaques,” replies a softer, female voice. “Why on Thedas would she be out here?”

“I don’t know, but you heard the rumours.”

“Lady Yvette is at Skyhold,” says the female voice. “ _That_ _’s_ what I heard. With the rest of the nobility.”

Rylen blinks, then straightens.

“Griffin Wing’s part of the Inquisition now though, isn’t it,” says the man. “It’s not that outside the realm of possibility.”

“There’s no way it’s her,” says the female in a final tone. “Besides, you think she would be so gauche to as remove her héraldique?” She laughs. “It’s not like you’d know what she looks like without it anyway Jaques.”

There a pause.

“I suppose not,” concedes the man, but something in his tone suggests he is not convinced. “Still, might be worth finding out. Could be useful information.”

Rylen’s jaw clenches. Useful information, he thinks, what is useful about knowing Yvette is assigned here? It’s not like it is a secret, is it? He thinks back to his conversation with Josephine. Is this what she was nervous about? Why?

“Ser?”

Rylen turns toward the familiar voice floating through the gatehouse. It is Yvette, peering at him as she walks toward him. He glances at the two merchants, once more deep in conversation before hurrying to meet her before she can come into view. Her face, Maker he’s not sure when he will get used to seeing her unmasked, is reddened from the morning sun and coated in a thin sheen of sweat. Sand from the dunes outside sticks to her nape and she has espoused her regulation plate armour in favour of lighter leathers.

“What are you doing out here?” He asks. He glances behind her to the small group of lieutenants milling about in a similar state of disarray. Some are lying down under the Acacia trees, exhausted.

Yvette chuckles.

“I decided to take some of the more motivated lieutenants out for a run in the dunes.”

Rylen nods as if this is a perfectly regular occurrence.

“I see,” he says. “Sparing is not exertion enough?”

“You know me,” Yvette says with a smile. “I like a challenge. Besides fighting on sand is very different to fighting on sure ground. My thighs are burning.”

Rylen blinks and tries not to look down at Yvette’s thighs, which, while helpfully clad in loose breeches, are shapely. Instead his brain settles for somewhere in between, which ends up being infinitely worse.

“That’s a good idea,” Rylen says. He takes a breath before meeting her eyes. “I fear there will be greater fights yet to come in this blighted place, it’s good for them to become acclimatized.”

Yvette nods. She looks over at the soldiers, a pleased smile on her face

“I wonder,” she muses. “Do you feel proud sometimes? Of what we’ve done”

“What do you mean?” He says. “The men?”

Yvette nods.

“Oui,” She affirms. “I remember some of these fools back in Haven, they had no idea, now look at them.”

Rylen follows her gaze. The company certainly has come a long way. He also remembers some of these fools. He looks back at Yvette.

Yes, he thinks, he does feel a sense of pride.

“I do,” he says, crossing his arms. Talking with Yvette has become easier over the past few weeks, almost natural, if not still unnerving. “It is always satisfying when someone you’ve trained demonstrates their ability as a complete soldier, or to see someone you’ve mentored become their own person.”

Yvette nods as if she knows exactly what he means. Rylen thinks that if she has not already experienced that exact feeling, she will soon. Some of these soldiers joined not long after her. They were simple tradesman's children, farmers, apprentices. Now they are here, able to tough it out underneath the harsh sun and treacherous conditions of the Approach. True soldiers of the Inquisition.

They have done a good job. _Yvette_ has done a good job.

“Would you ever want to command?” Rylen asks abruptly. Yvette hums thoughtfully.

“I don’t know,” she says.

“I think you would be suited to it.” Rylen says, unable to stop himself. “You understand people, you care about them.”

Yvette eyes him incredulously. Then she huffs out a laugh and frowns.

“I think I would be scared making the big decisions,” she says. “That’s one of the things I admire about you, you always see things very clearly. You always know what to do.”

The tips of Rylen’s ears begin to heat. He knows they must be getting redder and clenches his fingers to stimmy the urge to rub his neck.

“Ah-I don’t know about that.” He mumbles, self-conscious. He’s not quite sure how this conversation turned into something so meaningful. It seems to be happening with alarming frequency recently. He prides himself on being immune to a great number of charms, but Yvette seems to be getting a handle on how to circumvent his defences as of late.

He really should put an end to it.

“Harding’s report is due back today,” he blurts out. “I need you to go over it with me before the Inquisitor arrives with his entourage. He sent word from Craggy Ridge that they would be arriving this morning.”

His tone is harsher than he intended, but it has the desired effect. Yvette blinks, something akin to disappointment flicking across her face. Then she nods.

“Of course, Ser,” she says and salutes. “I’ll join you on the upper level after breakfast.” With a momentary glance, she jogs off to join the others under the Acacia.

“Ever the General,” drawls a voice behind him.

“You took your time,” he says turning to face Amelie as she drags her feet toward him, two sparring swords tucked under her arm. “You know when we agree to meet at 7, we meet at 7, not half past.”

“I slept in,” she says, managing to yawn and shrug at the same time. The result is not pretty.

Rylen sighs and follows her back through the gate and into the sparing ring. Ever since he met her back in Kirkwall, him and Amelie have sat somewhere between colleagues and good friends. Well, he thinks, _he_ _’s_ never treated their relationship as anything except professional, but Amelie has a way of forcing friendship upon a person, whether they want it or not, until you wake up one day and realize that actually, yes, you would trust her with your life. Rylen is not as upset about this as he thinks he should be. Yet, while Amelie’s charisma, he believes, is to her credit, she manages to simultaneously be the laziest and most efficient captain he’s ever known.

“You’re not partaking in Yvette’s extracurriculars,” he says and Amelie shudders, handing him a sword.

“There’s only one thing I dislike more than sand and that’s Yvette idea of a ‘light jog’.” She says as Rylen shirks the light jacket he had donned for the morning chill. “Besides, why did you think I asked to spar with _you_?”

She grins at Rylen’s level look.

“Enlighten me.”

“Well, one, there’s no better excuse than, ‘I have an appointment with the General.’” She says. “Especially where Yvette is concerned.”

“And here I thought you like my company.” Rylen says dryly, swinging his sword arm around experimentally.

Amelie laughs, hand on her hip.

“Don’t be silly Ser, we both know I only like people who can help me get what I want.”

Rylen raises an eyebrow.

“Are you going to keep talking or are we going to fight?”

“And two,” Amelie grins, crouching into her ready stance, with a flourish of her hand. “Always down to business.”

~

The Inquisitor arrives later that morning, his entourage in tow, Hawke and Stroud training behind. Rylen knows from a single glance they do not bring good news. This isn’t a surprise. What is the surprise is the sheer extent of the bad news. The Inquisitor fills him in as they gather in his tent. The Grey Warden treachery, Magister Erimond, Warden-Commander Clarel’s insane appeal to Tevene blood magic.

The whole sordid affair reminds Rylen why he hates institutionalized secrecy in the first place. Why he left the Order.

“This would not have happened if the Grey Wardens had been transparent about their operations.”

Stroud glares at him, the first signs of real emotion gracing his features that Rylen can recall.

“The Wardens have been deceived Knight-Captain.”

“Exactly my point,” he snaps, throwing a hand out in frustration. “If the warriors vital to the future of Thedas can all simply be _deceived_ , something has gone wrong.”

Stroud scoffs.

“We Wardens have reasons for our secrecy,” he says. “Believe me, it is not a path anyone would choose unless there was another option.”

“Be that as it may,” interjects the Inquisitor. “The time for secrecy has passed. You mentioned an old fortress at the Ritual Tower. What else do you know about the Warden’s plans?”

Stroud sighs.

“I believe they may be planning to summon the demon army in Adamant,” he says, gesturing to Yvette. “The map, Lieutenant.”

Yvette steps forward, a map under her arm.

“Your scouts have already reported that there has been increased Warden activity in the area.” Stroud continues as Yvette rolls it out onto Rylen’s desk. “Here,” he points to a northern stretch of the Abyssal Rift.

“We assumed it was just routine Warden business,” Rylen says, crossing his arms. "Perhaps we should have not been so trusting.”

There is a pause.

“This hostility is not helpful,” says the Inquisitor. 

“I agree,” says Hawke, speaking up from her position by the door. Rylen scowls at her. “The danger is imminent, we need to act now. That is only hampered by infighting.”

She flashes her eyes at him.

“Apologies, Inquisitor.” He concedes. “Please continue Stroud.”

Stroud huffs, his moustache ruffling ever so slightly.

“Adamant is a fortress,” he continues. “It is small, but it will be well defended. We will need to force our way in. There may be some schematics in the Keep’s library.”

Rylen nods at Yvette, who nods back and scurries out of the tent. Stroud’s eyes follow her as she goes.

“It is not an easy place to get to.”

Rylen steps forward to peer at the map. The cartographer has already marked an approximate placement of the fortress, based on old records. It is a significant distance from the keep, across the noxious wastes and barren desert.

“It would be a treacherous endeavour, especially with the terrain.“ Rylen says, his mind beginning to crank into the logistics. “It would be extremely difficult to get the siege equipment across the wastes. We’d need hundreds more men, it would involve allies, ones we might not have.”

“We don’t have a choice,” says Lavellan approaching the map. “Erimond is not lying about Corephyeus, and I trust Stroud, even with his secrets. Your scouts are second to none General, have them confirm, but I want preparations to begin immediately.”

Rylen nods as the Inquisitor places a finger on top of the ink marking.

“I’ve already foiled one assassination. This-” he taps his finger, looking around at the faces in the room, determination in his tone. “-is where Corephyeus’ game ends.”

~

Rylen’s administration tent becomes a flurry of activity almost immediately after the meeting ends. The Inquisitor insists on returning to Skyhold to liaise with his council, promising to return as quickly as possible. Rylen waves him off and Yvette arranges for a large wooden war table to be delivered. The thing is enormous and takes up most of the room. The remaining space is devoted to a Yvette’s favourite filing system and his existing desk. Yvette insists she is fine being confined into a small corner, but Rylen can tell she dislikes the chaos that follows the Inquisitor’s command. It is not the extra work, he thinks, it is something else. Something that hardens her jaw at the mere mention of Chevaliers. The worry lines that pinch at her brow when someone mentions Gaspard or Orlesian allies.

Rylen thinks about Josephine’s warning. He thinks about the merchants on the lower courtyard.

What is there for Yvette to fear in Orlais?

~

“Do you know what Orlesian masks represent?”

Rylen looks sideways at the moustachioed Warden leaning casually against his desk. The older man is watching him carefully. He is waiting for Yvette to return from fetching the latest relief map of the approach before he and Hawke accompany the scouts on a reconnaissance mission of the fortress. A request that apparently the man couldn’t complete by himself. Rylen has half a mind to tell him that Yvette is not _his_ aide, but that would be childish and reveal more of Rylen’s dislike of the man than he is willing to divulge.

“What?” Rylen says.

“Do you know what the masks mean?” He repeats. Rylen turns to him.

“A fashion statement,” he shrugs.

Stroud frowns.

“I’m sure you have little patience for Orlesian culture Knight-Captain but the significance of Lady Yvette’s decision to espouse her masque should not be understated.”

Yvette, he thinks, of course this is about Yvette. It seems every comment recently has been about blighted Yvette.

“How’s that?” He says.

Stroud pushes off the table and folds his arms neatly across his breastplate.

“The masks, they are like a crest, heraldry,” he explains. “It is common practice to identify one’s family background, and allegiance, by wearing one. Indeed, it is quite scandalous _not_ to wear one, especially amongst the greater nobility.”

“You don’t wear one.”

“I am not nobility.”

“You were though.”

Stroud shrugs.

“The voluntary removal of said masque, well-” Stroud continues, unperturbed by Rylen’s bearishness. “It would be the equivalent of a familial abdication perhaps. At least it would give the impression that the wearer did no longer wish to be associated with said family.”

Rylen considers this. Yvette has never talked much about her family and no one seems particularly interested in filling in his gaps. All he knows is that the relationship is contentious enough to warrant a warning from Lady Montyliet and that Yvette doesn’t like talking about why she isn’t a Chevalier. He doesn’t even know if these two things are related. If these masks represent what Stroud says they do it then the fact that Yvette wishes to distance herself from his family intentionally or otherwise troubles him further. But Yvette is an adult, she can and should make her own choices. It’s not his place to gossip about her personal circumstances, even if he is ready to admit that he is burningly curious.

He glances at the rising moons through the gap in the tent entrance; it is nearly 10 o’clock and he is tired.

“It’s too hot to wear a mask in the Approach.”

“That’s what she told you?’

Rylen turns to face the man fully.

“I tend to take explanations at face value Warden.”

Stroud hums.

“I respect you General,” he says. “But I feel it would be doing a disservice to your aide if you were to merely take _her_ on face value.”

Rylen observes the other man. He is the very picture of inscrutable. It agitates Rylen like nothing else.

“Why would Yvette want to distance herself from her family?” 

“Why does anyone want to distance themselves from something?”

Rylen clenches his jaw; this blighted game again.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I knew. Would I?”

Stroud opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, his gaze moves to the sound of Yvette reaching the top of the stairs. He inclines his head.

“You’re a smart man,” he mutters, brushing past him to take a map from Yvette as she approaches. “Think on it.”

Rylen thinks. He thinks as he watches Yvette smile at the older man. He thinks as he watches her laugh at something he says. He thinks about why Stroud brings this up, of all things, to him. He thinks about why he even cares. After all, Yvette is not his friend. Yet, he made a promise, he tells himself.

Yes, he thinks, he cares because it is his duty.

~

“They own almost all of Val Firmin. Her father’s quite renowned really, fought in Ghislain with Gaspard and everything.”

Amelie peers up at him from her ministrations, whet stone in hand. Rylen feels silly for asking, but Stroud’s comments have been bouncing around in his mind ever since he said them, and Rylen has more important things to worry about. Information always seems to calm him down, so here he is, gathering what he can and feeling like a fool.

“I’m surprised you don’t know this.” She says, her brows furrowed. “How long have you been working together?”

Rylen clears his throat.

“It’s a _professional_ relationship,” he says and Amelie grins.

“Now that I can believe.” She says, with a smug glint in her eye. “No one straighter and narrower than you Ser.”

Rylen narrows his eyes, irritation rising in his chest.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The half-elf hops to her feet.

“I don’t mean it as an insult,” she says. “It’s just, you know, you’re very… _reliable_.”

The way Amelie says ‘reliable’ makes Rylen think she _is_ insulting him, no matter what she actually says. He almost wishes Yvette were here to buffer, Maker be damned.

“This is not why I came,” he says with a sigh. “Tell me more about Yvette’s family.”

Amelie leans against the tower she is supposed to be manning.

“Okay, but just because I think it’d be good for Vett if you knew,” she says and takes a breath. “Her mother was from Velrun. She died when Vett was 5 or 6, I think. I don’t really know how, but there were rumours going around about an affair between her and some commoner. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was not exactly natural, you know?”

She attaches a conspiratorial tone to the last sentence. Rylen frowns. He does not know, because he does not think it should be normal for people to be killed, naturally or otherwise, for infidelity. But he waves a hand for Amelie to continue.

“Anyway,” she continues. “Ser Angevin went off and remarried, had a right old arse of a son from what I’ve been told and left Vett mostly to her mother’s sister in Velrun.”

Rylen cocks his head.

“Wait,” he says. “Who is Ser Angevin?”

Amelie looks at him as if he’s just said something incredibly stupid.

“Yvette’s father?” She says slowly. “Ser Benoit Angevin.”

“But Yvette is Garis, Yvette Garis.”

Amelie peers at him.

“Wow, it really _is_ a professional relationship isn’t it?” She says and there is genuine surprise in her eyes that makes Rylen feel a little stupid. “You didn’t know she wasn’t using her family name?”

Rylen scowls.

“Explain.”

“Garis is her _mother_ _’s_ name,” Amelie sighs. “I always assumed it was just so she could avoid the hoo-hah of being associated with greater nobility, but I mean anyone who knows Orlesian heraldry knows her masque was an Angevin masque.”

“I doubt there are many in Ferelden who are familiar with Orlesian heraldry.”

“Fair point,” Amelie concedes. Rylen runs a hand over his chin. He is not exactly sure of the significance of Yvette deciding to use her mother’s name, but something about it unsettles him all the same.

“What about the Académie?” He prompts.

“Ah,” Amelie says. “ Well you know nobility; they don’t exactly relish their precious child-bearing daughters becoming warriors now do they?”

“Even Chevalier families?”

“Especially Chevalier families,” Amelie says. “Someone has to bear the strong bloodline, don’t they?”

Rylen clears his throat, deeply uncomfortable with the thought of Yvette being treated as breeding stock.

“But Yvette is not married, she has no children.”

Amelie looks like she is deciding how much more, if any, to reveal.

“No,” she agrees. “I’m fairly certain she doesn’t have a secret family or something. But I do get the impression she’s spent a lot of her life since then waiting for either her father to marry her off or, you know, ‘die’.” 

“That is incredibly grim,” Rylen says.

“Yeah well that’s Orlesian nobility for you,” Amelie shrugs, her face darkens for a moment. “To be honest, I don’t know why neither has happened. She’s quite tight-lipped about it. And really, I’m kind of glad she never competed the training, I don’t know if we could be friends if she had.”

Rylen cocks his head, the idea of Amelie not trying to befriend someone is a strange concept to him.

“Yeah?”

“Think of the worst abuses of power you’ve seen of a Templar over a Mage and there’s your reference point for the absolute power Chevaliers wield in Orlais.” Amelie says. “Yvette got off easy in my opinion, she would not be suited to that life I think.”

Rylen hums. He thinks of Meredith Stannard. He tries to imagine a life where Yvette is cold, ruthless and power hungry. Amelie is right, it would not suit her.

“You know, if you really care, I think she’d tell you this herself if you were a little warmer with her,” Amelie says and Rylen frowns.

“Warmer?”

“You know, friendly, like friends,” Amelie puts on a mock look of seriousness. “You do know what a friend is don’t you Ser?”

“I hang around with you, don’t I?” He says.

“I wouldn’t characterize you as being the one that does the hanging Ser.” Amelie says. “You’re just kind of there at the same time.”

Rylen rolls his eyes but considers her words. He has always felt a little uncomfortable with workplace relationships, even friendships. It always makes decision making harder and more fraught. Better, he thinks, to keep the expectation of fairness active by treating everyone exactly the same. Emotions around particular people are never conducive to that.

And yet, he thinks, his instinct is to be friendlier with Yvette, if for nothing else than to unravel the puzzle that is this intrigue surrounding her family situation.

~

The Sandy Dune is not the Singing Maiden, but while the air is too stuffy, the food is good, and the bard is tolerable. Rylen sits in a corner nursing a stein; the cool metal is a relief against his sore palms.

“Ser!”

He looks up at the shout and finds Amelie waving at him from across the room. She walks over. Behind her, Yvette follows, deftly navigating the sea of chairs and bodies.

“Ser.” Amelie stops in front of him with an expression of mock seriousness and plonks a deck of cars on the table. “I’m out for blood.”

“What she means is she wants to win back that bet.” Yvette translates, stopping beside the half-elf. She looks him up and down. “Do Templars play Wicked Grace?”

Rylen levels his gaze at her.

“Of course they do,” he says.

“Then you have no excuse!” Says Amelie with glee. She slides in opposite him and begins dealing the cards. Rylen is used to Amelie’s lively behaviour as much as he is used to Yvette’s cool charisma. Together, they are an exercise in contrasts. Yvette slips into a chair to his right.

“You’re not playing?” He says.

Yvette smirks and Rylen feels, quite abruptly, a jolt of knotted pleasure at the look. Has she ever looked at him like that before? It must be the ale, he thinks. He’s been drinking for a good 15 minutes, trying in vain to put his mind at ease with all the concerns that plague him. Usually he tries to limit himself, but the day has been particularly long and particularly troublesome. It doesn’t surprise him that Amelie and Yvette have also found their way to the tavern.

“Amelie wants to win her money back, not lose more of it-” Yvette is saying.

“Hey!”

“-And I wouldn’t want to strip you of your entire pay packet, Ser.”

Rylen frowns, a sudden surge of manly pride thrumming through him.

“You think quite highly of your skills Lieutenant Garis.” He says, taking a sip of his ale for courage. “If you’re as good as you say, why are you scared?”

“Yeah,” agrees Amelie. “Besides, you took half of the bet anyway. It’s time to pay up Garis!”

A slow smile spreads across Yvette’s face, like ink mixed with water. Rylen gets the distinct feeling this was the exact kind of reply she was wanting.

“Very well,“ she says. “Deal me in.”

Wicked Grace is a simple game, on the surface at least. Rylen has never been particularly good nor particularly bad at it, but he knows he is a bad liar, so his strategy mostly consists of keeping his mouth shut and betting conservatively.

To his great surprise, he wins the first round, and Amelie, the second.

“This is ridiculous,” Yvette mutters, discarding another card on the third round.

“Trouble?” Teases Amelie with a pleased glint in her eye. Yvette eyes the half-elf suspiciously. They order a new round of drinks. Then Rylen wins again. Yvette’s pile of coin begins to decrease.

“Didn’t you say you were good at this game Yvette?” Amelie teases as she deals out another round, grinning at the barmaid when she places a stein down in front of her. Yvette frowns.

“I usually am.”

Amelie looks at Rylen and conspicuously mouths-out Yvette’s words. Rylen laughs. His blood feels warmer from the ale somehow, his stomach is full, and the heat of the day has dissipated. For the first time in a long time he feels entirely at ease. He looks at Yvette’s flushed face, her elegant features, her beautiful eyes.

It is making him reckless.

“Does ‘usually’ mean against children?” He says with an easy grin. “Or maybe a blind man?”

Amelie chortles.

“Good one Ser.”

“Just deal.” Yvette grumbles, eying him. The pleasure that thrums through him adds to the heady feeling of the ale. Amelie deals. He picks up the hand in front of him, it is a good one.

“5 Silvers.” He says, glancing across at Amelie.

“Call.” She says.

“Raise, 10 silvers.” Yvette pushes a large chunk of her coins into the centre of the table.

“Raise, 15.”

Amelie hums.

“Call.” She says again.

Yvette opens her mouth but pauses.

“Raise,” she says slowly. “ 20 Silvers.”

Amelie snickers.

“Confident, aren’t we?” She says. “Call.”

“Call.”

Rylen picks up a Serpent and discards his Song. Amelie and Yvette both pick up and discard. The turns continue until finally Amelie lets out an exclamation, slapping the Angel of Death on the table. Rylen lays out his cards with a smug smile; 3 Knights and 2 Angels. Amelie takes one look and grumbles as she turns over 2 Serpents, a Song and 2 Knights. They both look at Yvette who, with a small smile tugging at her lips, turns over 4 Angels and a knight.

“What!” He and Amelie cry at the same time.

“I believe these are mine,” she says pulling the silvers toward her across the wooden table.

Rylen is filled with such a sense of indignation that he promptly overextends his hand in the next three rounds, all of which are won by Yvette.

“Maker damned it,” Amelie grumbles as she slides across her last silver to Yvette. “I was going to spend that on a new bow.”

“You should have listened to me,” Yvette chides with a smirk on her face that suggests that she knew exactly what she was doing the entire time. “I warned you.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Amelie says, sliding her chair back and standing up. She glares at Yvette. “I’m going to bed, _someone_ put me on morning watch, despite the fact I technically outrank her.”

Yvette shrugs.

“Argue with the rota.” She says.

Rylen sits back in his chair, his own pouch significantly lighter and his ego considerably diminished. He watches Amelie as she slinks away. He becomes acutely aware of Yvette’s presence beside him. Now that he has stopped having to think about Wicked Grace, he has started thinking about Yvette again. She really is quite beautiful, for an Orlesian.

“Rylen,” she says. He turns to look at her fully.

“Yvette.”

“I was wondering,” she says. “Why did _you_ join the Inquisition?”

Rylen thinks about this. He wonders if he can avoid embarrassing himself despite being, he now realizes, quite, quite tipsy. Probably not.

“Cullen asked me to,” he says, before giving up and downing what’s left of his stein. “I was in Kirkwall after the Circle was destroyed, the Knight-Commander in Starkhaven sent me because I’m very reliable you see.”

Yvette nods, watching him with her intelligent blue eyes. She doesn’t appear to regard ‘reliable’ as insultingly as Amelie does. This pleases him.

“I do see,” she agrees, her mouth quirking. “But that explains very little.”

“Yes, well I was in Kirkwall,” he continues, flushing uncontrollably suddenly. “Cullen was there because he’d been transferred from Ferelden after the Blight. He was the Knight-Captain there under Meredith Stannard, do you know about her?”

Yvette nods.

“No wonder he’s so grim.”

Rylen huffs out a laugh, that turns into a frown.

“He’s been through a lot,” he says, thinking of his friend. Its past time he sent him a letter that didn’t involve logistical reports or supply lists. He sighs. “Anyway, Cullen was holding things together after blighted Hawke just up and disappeared and we became friends in the middle of it. Then Seeker Penderghast appeared out of nowhere and offered Cullen the Commander position. The idiot basically demanded that I be offered a job as well. Initially, I was a bit dubious, I’d never been outside the Marches and I have family back home.”

Yvette nods, her face impassive.

“Family?”

“Older brother, Alec, stone mason like Pa and two older sisters, Georgia and Ella, one’s married, the other lives at home.” He says. “And my father, you already know about my mother.”

Yvette nods, she glances down for a moment.

“Anyone else?”

“Oh, no,” he says. “All my grandparents are dead. Dead as doornails.”

Yvette looks back up at him, searching his face for something. She seems a little amused for some reason.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says finally, Rylen laughs.

“Don’t be,” he says. “They all died before I was born, except for Grandmammy and she was a right old cow. She used to say I was the reason my mother died.”

Yvette’s brows shoot up in shock.

“That’s horrible!”

Rylen shrugs, nodding at the barmaid when she brings them another round.

“It’s fine,” he says, but Yvette shakes her head.

“It’s _not_ fine,” she says. “Even I know that’s a horrible thing to say to a child, Orlesian as I am.”

Rylen observes Yvette’s indignation with vague affection, and she observes him back, the corners of her mouth quirking. After a moment they both burst out laughing.

“Orlesian as I am,” Rylen echoes, wiping the beginning of a tear from his eyes. Yes, he is most definitely drunk. Dangerously so; he could say anything. Yvette should stop asking him questions, but he suspects that is the whole point. At least being drunk helps him interpret the meaning behind Yvette's words a little better.

Yvette looks across at him over the top of her stein.

“You know, for someone who hates my circuity, that was a remarkably long-winded _non_ -answer.”

Rylen rolls his eyes and shrugs.

“Sometimes there’s not an interesting answer,” he says. “Work is work and I am but a simple man.”

“Now, that is something I don’t believe at all.” Yvette says with a curved brow. “You defected from the Order, you believed in Cullen enough, to follow him, to move away from your family, though you were reticent about it. You said once that we have a common goal, a desire to do something useful for the world. Some part of that comes from within.”

Rylen considers this.

“I suppose if it was anything, I was unfulfilled.” He admits slowly, thinking about his time in Starkhaven. “Constantly cleaning up other people’s messes, prescribing to other people’s faith, when I could always see a better way but was never afforded the freedom to _really_ try. ” He pauses. “I mean I was given the chance to solve the problems the Order seemed to always find itself in. But there was never a chance to really change anything, you know, to fix the _real_ problems.”

He thinks, suddenly, of Hawke’s criticisms on the road. Maybe she had a point.

Yvette nods.

“The Inquisition offers you that?”

“I believe so,” he affirms, feeling more confident. “The Inquisition might be a clean-up operation on a massive scale, but it at least wants to make things better, not return them to the way they were before.”

He realizes Yvette is staring at him with admiration in her gaze and a rush of self-awareness spreads over his skin. He waves his hand about vaguely.

“You know, and I didn’t want to devolve into an Apostate hunter.”

“I am glad you didn’t.” Yvette says, smiling at him. Rylen can’t help but meet her gaze for a moment before staring down at his ale intently.

“Can I ask; Is there a particular reason why you don’t like Orlesians?”

Rylen glances up at Yvette again. He shrugs.

“Not in particular,” he says, taking a swig of his drink. “I guess, growing up, Orlais always reminded me of the monarchy.” A dark mood settles over him as he thinks about the Vaels. “Rich people living in their estates without a care in the world, spending coin as easily as breathing.”

“You were poor?”

He laughs bitterly and straightens his spine, looking back at Yvette.

“The youngest of four with a cripple for a father and no mother, what do you think?”

A look of shame settles upon Yvette’s lovely features and Rylen hates that he put it there.

“It’s not your fault,” he says reflexively.

“I didn’t know your father was unwell.”

“He’s dying.”

It is the first time Rylen thinks he has admitted this to himself, aloud or otherwise. He feels suddenly small, suddenly 14 years old again, waiting outside the healers with his sisters to hear whether his father will ever be able to walk again. He starts as Yvette’s delicate fingers settle over the top of his worn, tanned hand.

“Do you care for him?” She says.

Rylen nods. Yvette sighs mournfully and looks away. There is silence for a moment and Rylen curses himself for ruining a perfectly pleasant mood with his big alcohol-fueled mouth. Cullen always said the best way to get him to loosen up was to ply him with ale. Loosen up is right, he’s so loose he’s running his mouth about his dying father. Maker, is he a fool.

“The Inquisition pays, a lot better than the Order.” He says suddenly. “That’s another reason I joined, a big one. Medicines aren’t cheap.”

Yvette nods, her gaze flits toward her pouch of winnings.

“Do you-”

Quite suddenly, Rylen feels hot with humiliation, he pulls his hand out from beneath hers.

“Don’t pity me.” He snaps. “Hate me if you must, but don’t _pity_ me.”

Yvette frowns.

“What makes you think-” she says, baffled. “I’ve never _hated_ you Rylen, why would you think that? And I would never _pity_ you.”

She looks at him, searching his face.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have implied...” She takes a breath. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve been officially cut off from the family fortune since we left Skyhold.” She smiles ruefully. “So, I kind of need this coin for some new boots.”

Rylen stares at her.

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.” He says and feels uncomfortably sober for a moment. He wants to ask about her family, but he is afraid of looking like a fool again, asking questions she clearly doesn’t want to answer, at least with him.

"I didn't realise you weren't using your family name," he says, deciding on a mild prompting. "Angevin. Amelie told me."

Yvette looks at him for a moment then sighs.

“I suppose it’s only fair,” she says, nursing her stein. “I decided to use my mother's name because I hoped it would make things easier if people didn't know how _much_ of a noble I am. Fereldens are much more partial to knowing names than memorizing masks. And well-" Yvette wrings her hands. "-My father disapproves my being here, _greatly_.”

“Why?” Rylen leans forward in his chair.

“I, well, for a start, I didn’t exactly seek his permission before joining,” she says sheepishly. “And I was already, how should I say, under probation? I-ah, I have not always been a dutiful daughter and being a Captain’s aide is not exactly distinguished work for a greater noblewoman. He’s been hounding me to return home since Haven, but I told him I was staying so he cut me off.”

Rylen watches her as she stares into her drink and clenches her jaw.

"I think he expected me to cave once I realized I had no coin for cosmetics," she says this last part bitterly but then looks up with a glint of triumph in her eyes. "Little did he know all it did was make me realise how much _easier_ it is not having to apply them each day."

"I think you look better without them," Rylen says, quite without meaning to. Yvette flushes.

"You'd be the first person to tell me that," she says. Rylen feels an unexpected surge of irritation on Yvette's behalf.

“How old are you?” He says, peering at her. “Five and twenty? Six and twenty?”

“Seven and twenty.” Yvette corrects. “Why?”

Seven and twenty, only 4 years younger than him.

"And you are still so beholden to your family?”

Yvette’s face darkens as she looks up at him.

"You _just_ told me, your family was a consideration in joining," she points out.

"A consideration," he agrees. "But Pa certainly wouldn't threaten to _disown_ me if I decided to move across the continent."

“It works differently in Orlais,” Yvette says defensively.

“As does everything else apparently,” Rylen says with a roll of his eyes. “You’re a grown woman Yvette, you can choose to join whatever you please.”

“I’m not making excuses,” Yvette says. “It _is_ different. You aren’t from nobility Rylen, you don’t understand.

“What’s not to understand?” Rylen says with a derisive laugh. “In my experience nobility can do whatever they like.”

Yvette sighs.

“It’s not that simple,” she says. “My experience here has highlighted the privilege that has been afforded to me, but a gilded cage is still a cage.”

“But you still chose to come for some reason, just like I did,” he says, suddenly determined to make Yvette see how much power she has. “Eventually you chose to join, you’re here in the Approach, you chose to come here with me, what is that if not a choice?”

“You said you’d request me anyway.”

Rylen lets out an incredulous laugh.

“I wouldn’t have forced you if you didn’t want to come,” he says. “Is that really what you expected?”

Yvette cocks her head from side to side, yes and no.

“In Orlais, it is expected for you to do as you’re told, especially for a woman. Marry well, bear children, if you’re lucky there are some other options, but not many. I have had the misfortune to fail at all three of these.” She looks at him for a long moment. “You said before that I hate you, but I could never hate you Rylen. Whatever our grievances, you have always treated me like everyone else and you have listened to me. It has been…an education.” The corners of her mouth quirk. “But you must understand, my life has never been one of possibilities.”

She pauses.

“I know you spoke with Amelie, about my mother.”

Rylen nods, reading from her face that she is neither angered nor surprised by this. Yvette takes a deep, labouring breath.

“Amelie is right to be suspicious about my mother’s death.” She says evenly. “She was killed, by my father, because she made the mistake of being unfaithful.”

Rylen hates himself a little at the fact that this kind of revelation no longer surprises him.

“That is an abhorrent.”

Yvette shrugs.

“That has been my world.” She says. “I am lucky really; my father does love me in his way.”

“I find it hard to believe any man who would kill his wife in cold blood could be capable of any kind of love,” Rylen says, anger lacing his tone. He is angry at Yvette's bastard of a father. He is even more angry at Yvette for accepting this as a mere fact of life.

“Do not mistake me,” Yvette says calmly. “I am not foolish enough to think I can rely on his love to protect me, especially not now. He afforded me some liberties once, but he is not a forgiving man, and I am not an ideal daughter.”

“You mean the mask.”

“Among other things,” Yvette confirms.

“What other things?”

 _Tell me!_ He wishes to shout, _tell me why!_

Yvette swallows.

“I once made a mistake too,” she says. “Of thinking I could become a Chevalier."

She rubs a hand over her chin thoughtfully.

"It was all I wished to be, following in the steps of Aveline, serving the Empire. Being promoted into Celene's guard, being her champion. Father indulged me, he sponsored my entry to the Academie but I think he expected my fervour to pass. He did not expect it to increase." Yvette sighs. "It was _all_ I wanted. But when father realised I was serious, he ensured I was set 'right'." 

One of Yvette's fingers runs itself lightly over the bump in her nose. Rylen feels vaguely sick at the implication behind her words.

“Your father is a disgrace of a man,” he says. Yvette’s mouth pulls into a tight smile.

"The military is no place for a woman," she mutters, tone reminiscent and Rylen wishes more than anything that he could just hold her and assure her she is _here_ now, that she can do whatever she wants. Either that, or, and probably more appropriately, give her a sword and practice dummy to wail on.

"Unfortunately,” Yvette continues. “Father’s plan had the unintended consequence of deterring any marriage prospects I might have had.” She leans back in her chair. “Thus, I have become not only a failure to him on that front but now I’m gallivanting around in the desert, insulting him with my bare face.”

Yvette laughs ruefully, before letting out long sigh.

”I have not been making very measured decisions recently.”

Rylen looks at her. What she says is awful, what she implies is abhorrent, but he can’t help but shake the feeling something is missing, something he doesn’t understand. If Yvette has been treated so badly by her family, he can understand her reticence to associate herself with them. But if the threat of retribution is so real. Why is she here? Why not remain as far away from Orlais as possible.

“Why sign up for the post in Orlais then?” He says, desperate to put the pieces into place. “Why not keep the mask on, just to placate him?”

Yvette looks at him for a long moment.

“I want to be control of my life,” she says. “I feel in control when I’m around you, Amelie, the other captains. You accept me as I am, you respect me and my choices.” She ducks her head and laughs. “You make _bets_ over if I’ll wear my masque in the heat,” Yvette smiles and Rylen feels his heart lighten. “Do you know how freeing it is to have people treat that blighted thing as if it doesn’t fucking matter?”

She shakes her head.

“There is the danger yes, but I have learned that sometimes you need to be free of the past to move onto a better future, no matter how uncertain it may be. If that means rejecting what it made me become, then so be it.”

An image of Cullen comes unbidden to Rylen’s mind. It sounds exactly like something he would say. He thinks of Lyrium. He wonders, is this how Cullen also feels? To wish to be so free of the past, that you would face the danger of the present to get there. 

“You are brave to follow your own path,” he says, and though the words ring true, he feels slightly hollow, as if what Yvette is saying frightens him.

They sit in silence for a long time.

“Thank you,” Yvette says after a while. “For listening, for not judging me. I like that we have become friends.”

Rylen nods, and offers a small smile.

Friends indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rylen's got a bad case of the feels

Rylen dreams.

He dreams of a normal night. Except it isn’t normal. Something is off. As he slips out of his armour, undoes the utilitarian leathers of his uniform and strips down to his underclothes, he realizes what it is.

_Today was a good day._

A hand places itself onto his chest, over his heart.

Yvette is there. She is dressed in a thin undershirt that barely brushes the tops of her thighs. He reaches out, grasping her hips in his hands.

 _Come to bed_ , he hears himself say.

She allows him to lead her to his cot. Her hand slides from his chest and into his hair, caressing. The echo of fingernails across his scalp draws a low noise from the bottom of his chest. He stops his eyes from fluttering closed; he doesn’t want to miss the expression on her face. The expression his mind imagines she would look at him with.

If she were his.

It is a kind of exquisite torture.

_Come to me._

~

Rylen has experienced many hangovers in his life, but the pounding in his head when he wakes the next day puts each and every one of them to shame. He rolls over in his cot, an arm slung over his eyes to block the harsh sunlight filtering in from the window of his small stone bedroom. He tries to remember what he was doing the previous night to elicit such punishment from the Maker.

Nails across his scalp. Trails of fire from her lips across his chest. No. Not real, _surely_ not?

He opens his eyes to the ceiling, cold and ashen as ever.

No, not real, he thinks. Just his treacherous mind.

He begins to separate his imagination from reality. The Sandy Dune. Wicked Grace with Amelie and Yvette. Him pouring his heart out like a blighted fool. Finding courage only at the bottom of a bottle.

She must think him an idiot.

Shame fills him at the memory of his behavior and moreover, his dreams. He groans into his pillow, a groan of self-pity that only serves to irritate himself further. Who is he to feel sorry for himself when he has been such a lech? He is a man, he is celibate, he has _eyes_. It is natural for his mind to wander to such things, and it is certainly not the first time. But Yvette does not deserve his perversion, even if it is just his imagination. She deserves far better from her superior. From her friend.

He sighs and sits up.

Blinking, his eyes settle on a small vial beside his bed. A small note is attached:

_Courtesy of Erden._

_Don_ _’t worry, I’ll cover for you._

_-Y_

_Ps. I enjoyed last night_

A strange feeling grabs him by the heart. Waves of confused emotion he can barely distinguish roll over him. He crumples the paper in his fist and falls backward into his still-warm sheets.

What kind of torture is the Maker playing at?

~

Rylen drags his feet into the war tent just after lunchtime. The extent of his oversleeping mortifies him somewhat, but no one seems to bat an eye at his bedraggled appearance. He even gets one or two looks of sympathy and a passing ‘Hope you’re feeling better Ser’.

Yvette looks up as soon as he enters, deep in conversation with one of the scouts from Craggy Ridge. She smiles and the scout turns to see who has entered the tent.

“Ser,” the scout nods as he approaches. “Stomach feeling better?”

Rylen tries to school his face from the confusion he is currently feeling into something resembling understanding.

“Ah, yes Martha, thank-you.”

“I’ll get Erden to take another look at the water we’re getting in,” Yvette says with the message of ‘play along’ plastered across her face. “I’m not convinced it’s any better than the muck in the well.”

The scout nods.

“It’s hard to get good water out here,” she says.

“Indeed.” Yvette nods.

Rylen may have taken Erden’s potion, but he feels the headache coming back on all the same.

“As you were,” he says, waving a hand before dropping himself into his seat at his desk. Yvette’s eyes linger on him for a moment, amusement in her brow. She turns back to Martha.

“How many bandits are in the Ritual Tower?” She asks. “Could you take care of them?”

Martha shakes her head.

“They’ve set up camp,” she says. “It’d be a proper mission.”

“Okay,” Yvette says, making a note on the parchment in front of her. “I think that’s all.”

Martha nods at Yvette then salutes at him before hurrying out of the tent. Rylen observes Yvette from under heavy brows.

“Pray tell,” he says, tapping his fingertips together. “Why is my stomach of concern?”

Yvette walks over and props herself onto the edge of his desk, looking down at him.

“I may have concocted a small lie,” she confesses. “I didn’t think you would feel good about having the entire fort knowing it’s General dead in bed with a hangover, so I told Erden you’d come down with a stomach bug.” She toys with the inkwell on his desk. “Besides, I thought you probably needed the rest.”

It seems like the kind of excuse that would convince exactly no one. But then again, Rylen thinks, if he must have the reputation of being straight and narrow, at least it can afford him some rewards.

“You shouldn’t have lied for me,” he chides, but he is pleased. He looks up at her. He remembers, and then subsequently chides himself for remembering, the dream.

“Don’t worry, I am not as morally scrupulous as you,” Yvette says with a wink, oblivious to his thoughts. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit,” he admits. Bringing the conversation back to just how crap he feels helps to distract him. “But thank-you for the potion, and, _unofficially_ , the lying, and you know, the-ah-listening to me babble like a fool. You know…”

He trails off.

Stop. Blighted. Talking, he thinks.

Yvette scratches thoughtfully at a mark on his desk.

“I didn’t think you babbled like a fool,” she says, looking up at him. “We don’t get to talk much about anything that isn’t related to sieges, or battles or preparing for sieges and battles. It was nice to see a more…unguarded side of you Rylen.”

“Ah,” he says, clearing his throat, thoroughly embarrassed. But perhaps not as much as he might have expected. “Well, I suppose likewise. I meant what I said about you being brave.”

Yvette ducks her head. The flush that creeps up her neck is tortuously endearing.

“I’m surprised you remember to be honest,” she says, peeking back at him in amusement. “You drank an awful lot.”

“It’s one of my family traits,” he says, straightening in his chair. “Us Mathers are all very good at drinking, it’s a Starkhaven thing.”

Yvette nods.

“I see,” she says. “And the dancing, is that a Starkhaven thing?”

Rylen blanches. He tries furiously to locate the memory of him _dancing_ from the slosh of memories about the previous night. It takes him a moment to realize Yvette is holding back a laugh. He narrows his eyes.

“Cruel.”

Yvette can no longer hold back her laughter and she bends over her shoulders shaking. One hand finds itself innocently upon his knee.

“You should have seen your face!” She laughs. “That was almost as good as _actually_ seeing you dance.”

Rylen scowls, but it is half hearted. He is far too preoccupied with the heat that is currently burning a hole through his breeches.

“Yes, well, I can assure you Lieutenant, _that_ will not be happening any time soon.”

Yvette mock pouts and stands, removing her hand from his person. He cannot decide if it is a blessing or a curse.

She walks back across the room to where her desk has been crammed into a corner. She pulls out a stack of papers from Maker knows where.

“Well in that case, you received an inordinate amount of mail this morning.”

She places it in front of him on the desk.

“The grind never stops,” Rylen says with a sigh.

“It might for dancing,” Yvette says with a grin. He scowls at her.

“Don’t you have a siege to plan or something?”

~

_We need more men._

Rylen stares at the letter before him, Cullen’s spider-like handwriting crawls across the page, but Rylen’s eyes keep coming back to one line.

_A company of Chevaliers stationed near Val Firmin have sent an offer of assistance, Gaspard has offered his recommendation, but I would appreciate your opinion._

One name.

_Ser Benoit Angevin_

Yvette’s father.

The realization hits him like a ton of bricks; Yvette’s blighted, wife-murdering father has offered his help and Cullen is asking his opinion on enlisting him. He must not realize, Rylen thinks, otherwise he’d mention it. Yet, Rylen thinks, even if he did, Cullen would have no reason _not_ to consider Ser Angevin’s services. Cullen has no idea.

Rylen sighs.

The Inquisitor’s antics at Halamshiral have increased the Inquisition’s influence across Orlais, but Adamant is a formidable fortress and influence doesn’t break stone. There is, apparently, no glory in sacking an old Warden fortress. Even less in starting a conflict with the Grey Wardens as a general rule. Rylen runs a hand over his chin, staring so hard at the name on the paper that he wouldn’t be surprised it it spontaneously caught fire. They are not exactly turning away help to siege against the Grey Wardens. He knocks his fist against the table and wonders what the point of all those machinations is, if it doesn't afford them any practical advantage.

He pauses, quill poised over the yellow parchment. Yvette would resent him for endorsing it, even if she did understand. She might even consider it a betrayal. Something painful twists in his gut at the thought. He imagines himself, writing back in affirmation, receiving Yvette’s father, here in Griffin Wing along with a hundred elite Chevaliers.

He imagines Yvette never talking to him again.

 _Cullen_ , he scribbles furiously. _While I_ _’m sure Gaspard is an excellent judge of military ability, my intelligence on Ser Angevin, namely that of Yvette - his_ daughter, _of whom he has treated with utter contempt - is that he would not be a suitable ally in this assault. It would be my preference to liaise with Lady Montyliet about other Chevalier allies the Inquisition might have before we even entertain the idea of allying with this man._

He pauses in his scribbling, suddenly starkly conscious about what he is writing. His words reject an ally, a _powerful_ ally they could desperately use. Can he _truly_ justify that?

He rereads his note about ten times before folding it in half very quickly and stuffing it into a drawer.

He will think on it.

~

Some part of Rylen has always found Yvette attractive.

Even when he thought her obnoxious and resented her presence, there had always, deep down, been an appreciation of her physical qualities. She is not soft, nor is she curvaceous; her breasts are small, her hips are narrow. Her rigorous training has formed her frame into that of a warrior, a shield maiden. Rylen is an easy man to please, but there is something particularly thrilling in the way she stands.

There is a power in the way she holds herself. A power that draws him toward her through a mere look, a stance, the gesture of a lithe and capable hand.

Statuesque, like Andraste herself.

Rylen has these particular thoughts the day after he broodingly stuffs his half-written letter to Cullen in his desk.

It is when the phrase ‘like Andraste herself’ enters his mind that he begins to realize how truly _fucked_ he is.

It is evening. The sun has just begun to set behind the dunes, and he is making his way through the lower levels. As he passes through the entrance courtyard, he finds Yvette, espoused of all but her shirt and breeches, facing down Amelie in the sparring ring. He does an almost comical double take before slowing his walk in the shadows of the scaffolding to watch.

They are sparring with swords. Yvette almost always opts for an arming sword and shield. Tonight, she holds both in front of her in a defensive crouch, carefully eying Amelie’s movements as the elf dances her way around the edge of the ring. Mirroring their temperaments, both women fight as characteristically as they live. Amelie is as erratic a fighter as he has ever seen, yet never seems to exhaust excess energy, whereas Yvette moves with the type of efficient grace that only comes from a childhood of rigorous training. It is a _show_ , watching the appraising and disciplined Yvette face down the unpredictable and creative Amelie.

This is what he tells himself when he stops his walk entirely.

Amelie moves into range and Yvette takes the opportunity to swing forward. Her blow is a glancing one and Amelie parries it easily. She lunges forward heedlessly but is pushed aside by Yvette’s shield. Both women take a step backward, circling each other. Rylen watches as Yvette straightens her spine, sweat pooling at her lower back making her shirt translucent. Her damp hair frames her flushed cheeks. Her-

“Ser?”

He starts, almost jumping an inch off the stone. He turns to find one of his lieutenants peering at him nervously, a piece of parchment in his hand.

“What is it?” He snaps. He clenches his fists to stop himself from glancing back over at the sparring ring, annoyed and thoroughly mortified at having been caught.

“We’ve received a-um scouts report from the Champion’s party- from Lady Hawke,” the lieutenant says, a young brown-haired Dalish boy. He stumbles a little over his words, which annoys Rylen further. “She ah-reports that-ah,” he looks down at the letter in his hands. “- that ah…Adamant is almost certainly the stronghold of the Wardens.”

“What do you mean _almost_ certainly?” Rylen grumbles. The lieutenant shrinks a little, enough to make Rylen feel a little bad for being so bearish. He knows none of any of this is the lad’s fault, least of all his General’s own embarrassment at being caught leering at his aide. But he is feeling so frustrated that all he wants it to do is drown himself privately under a bucket of cold water. Then maybe drown himself _in_ the bucket of water.

It would certainly make a great number of things easier.

“Ah well, um-” the lieutenant says, his eyes stumbling through the words on the page. “She writes that she is cautious about scouting closer, what with the Wardens and their ah…demons.”

Imagine that, he thinks, Hawke being cautious about something. He restrains himself from letting out a laugh.

“As if _Hawke_ is afraid of a blighted demon,” Rylen says, forgetting for a moment that the lieutenant is there. He turns his attention back to the boy. “Send a reply telling her I _need_ her to be sure. We can’t drag an army halfway across a desert on an almost certainty. Certainly not because Hawke didn’t scout the area well enough.”

There is some part in the back of Rylen’s mind that tells him he might be being a little disingenuous toward Hawke’s judgment. That maybe he should send the letter himself, after the aforementioned bucket of cold water and once his hackles have had time to settle. But then he recalls the chaos that was Kirkwall and that little part promptly shuts up.

The recruit stutters out a nod, salutes and leaves. Rylen sighs and looks back to the ring where Yvette and Amelie still are still sparing. He shakes his head, vigorously.

He has work to do.

~

Two days later and Cullen’s letter still burns in his consciousness so brightly that Rylen is surprised his desk hasn’t caught fire. The Commander needs a reply, and he needs one now. Yet, Rylen still finds himself in a torturous state of indecision; a feeling as foreign to him as the ones he feels toward Yvette. Sending the letter in its current state seems to him against everything he has previously advocated for. Everything he values. Yet, not sending the letter and endorsing Ser Angevin’s offer seems wrong, a betrayal somehow. He has half a mind to just not send Cullen anything and pretend it got lost en-route. But if anything, this idea makes him feel more anxious; a betrayal of _both_ Cullen and Yvette.

It is hard for him not to feel some resentment toward Yvette for facilitating this indecision.

Because this _is_ all about Yvette after all.

Rylen might be profoundly aware of his own emotional shortcomings, but even _he_ can’t rationalize away what precisely is causing the issue; he is lusting after his lieutenant aide and it is interfering with his job.

And so, like all insurmountable problems, he approaches it with the edge of a blade.

The practice dummy swings wildly from another blow. Rylen crouches back into his ready stance, muscles contracting and relaxing to compensate for the heavy steel of the sword in his hand. He takes a deep breath and swings again, running through each form with methodical precision. Each swing considered, controlled. Each breath measured. In and out.

It is a kind of catharsis. The kind he can only otherwise approach through the neck of a bottle. But conflicted he may be, Rylen knows his mind needs to be clear for his duty. He is not a drunkard. 

Not yet at least.

He swings and he thinks of Yvette. He has lusted. He has had trysts. But they have always been awkward, fumbling and left him feeling foolish and inexperienced. What he feels for Yvette feels like lust, but there is an edge to it that he has not felt before. A closeness and desire that extends beyond simply touching her.

He wants to _know_ Yvette, in every sense of the word.

It terrifies him.

He lunges toward the dummy, driving his sword into its heart. With a deep breath, he retreats, he considers.

Dealing with such feelings in the circle had always come down to the simple fact that he was a Templar. While Templar’s were not officially prohibited from relationships, it was discouraged enough that it provided a convenient excuse. It was easier to remove himself entirely from that possibility and focus on the job at hand. He is a Templar, he would tell himself the moment a lusty thought entered his mind, Templars do not fraternize.

The trouble, he thinks, as he slashes a little uncontrollably across the dummy’s chest, is that this logic no longer applies.

Now, he can do whatever he wants.

He steps back, retrieving the familiar cues of his breath from where they have become untethered from his calm.

His breath slows and the control is comforting. He _is_ in control of his body, he thinks, it will do what he wills it to do.

He refocuses his efforts into his forms.

He is no longer a Templar. He is free. Yet while he is free, he has never felt so trapped. He might be able to control his breath, but it is alarming, he thinks, to suddenly have so little control over his thoughts.

Again, he circles back to Yvette. Every Blighted time.

Untethered, is the word that comes to mind. It is hard to focus when Yvette is in the room. It is hard to focus when she is not in the room. Every moment not forcefully spent on working through siege logistics is spent thinking about what Yvette is doing, what Yvette might think.

Yvette, Yvette, Yvette.

The head of the dummy flies off the stand, landing in the dirt meters from where he heaves air into his lungs. He straightens, sweat dripping down his neck.

A passing captain gives him a curious and strangely appreciative look. Rylen nods, bending down to retrieve the burlap head.

It is enough to make a man go mad, and if Rylen already felt any less mad, he probably would.

~

Rylen thinks, naively, that if he can keep his interactions with Yvette to a minimum and as professional as possible it might help retain what little sanity he has left.

Naturally, the plan falls apart about as quickly as he thinks it up.

“I hope you won’t think me impertinent Rylen,” Yvette says with an impertinent smile. “But you need to cheat a bit more.”

They are alone, sitting in the quiet of the war tent playing a version of Wicked Grace modified for two people. Rylen is not quite sure how his containment plan managed to end up with him in _closer_ proximity to Yvette. Yet, the moment he appeared even slightly aloof Yvette started haranguing him. Instead of keeping her at a distance his behaviour has apparently convinced her that he is stressed and, in fact, needs her help.

It is, in retrospect, an outcome he should have easily seen coming.

“You need to relax,” she had said, right before ripping the letter from his hands hours before, the ink still wet. “And without alcohol. It is not healthy to drink so much.”

“I disagree.” He had said blinking up at her. “I’m very relaxed, and liquor is good for the constitution.”

Yvette had rolled her eyes and pushed forward a pack of cards.

“Let’s have some proper fun.”

Sweet Maker, he had thought, before thinking a succession of other things. Well, he had settled on, at least he is not both alone with her _and_ drunk.

Small mercies.

He narrows his eyes at her from across the table.

“Cheating is wrong,” he says.

“You do know you’re playing Wicked Grace right?” Yvette deadpans, her eyes glittering with mischief in the lamplight. “Don’t be so sanctimonious Ser Templar.”

Rylen hums, looking down at his hand. It _is_ truly awful.

“Very well,” he says, looking back up at her, unable to resist. “What do you suggest?”

Yvette places her hand face down on the table and leans back in her chair. She tents her fingers thoughtfully.

“Well, before we go advanced, first you have to get a better grace face.”

“I have a grace face,” Rylen grumbles. Yvette has the audacity to laugh.

“Your grace face is as bad as the cards in your hand.”

Rylen narrows his eyes at her.

“Who says they’re bad?”

Yvette’s lip twitches.

“Well, you did just look down at them and grimace.”

Rylen looks down at his hand again.

“There,” Yvette says, far too gleefully. “You did it again!”

“Maybe I was bluffing you,” Rylen tries, looking back up at her with what he hopes is a cavalier expression.

“Were you?”

“If I tell you that it won’t be much of a bluff now would it?”

“Unless you’re trying to _double_ bluff me.”

Rylen thinks that that would be too much of a strategic scaffold for even the most masterminded of Wicked Grace player and it exhausts him. He lets out a grumble.

“The cards are awful,” he admits, laying them out on the table. “But it’s not my fault I'm _too_ honest Yvette. I certainly don’t consider it a character flaw.”

“Being stoic is not lying,” Yvette says, amused.

Rylen has always thought of himself as relatively stoic, so these words come as somewhat of a surprise to him.

“You don’t think I’m stoic,” he frowns and Yvette grins as if this is one of the most outrageous things she has ever heard.

“You are one of the most responsive people I know,” she says. “It is ridiculously easy to tell how you are feeling.”

“That’s because you’re an Orlesian,” Rylen retorts. “You were raised to tell how people are feeling.”

Yvette shrugs.

“Maybe,” she admits. “But that doesn’t change facts.”

Rylen huffs.

“Okay,” he says, not bothering to control any of the annoyance bubbling in his chest. “What am I feeling now?”

Yvette rolls her eyes, but she humors him.

“You’re obviously annoyed at me,” she says. “That’s not hard to sense even if you _were_ good at hiding your feelings.”

Rylen leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. He thinks of something funny, something nice, something that will cheer him up. He thinks of his sisters and him, playing in the courtyard in Starkhaven.

“What about now?”

“I’m not a _mind reader_ Rylen.”

“No,” he says, pointing a finger at her. “You started this. You can finish this. Or cede. Whatever is your pick.”

Yvette rolls her eyes again but then peers at him unable to resist the challenge. Rylen thinks of those warm Summerday days, trying all the while to will his face into a blank slate. But thinking of his sisters brings a smile to his face before he has the chance to stop it. A smile that ultimately dooms him.

“Okay, you’re still annoyed but happier for some reason? Nostalgic maybe?”

It is Rylen’s turn to narrow his eyes.

“Ha!” Yvette exclaims with a sharp clap of her hands. Rylen rolls his own eyes. He _will_ get her.

“Again.” He says.

“Rylen, this is ridiculous,” Yvette complains, she slumps down into her chair. “I’m sorry okay, you’re very stoic, very manly etcetera etcetera.” She waves a hand. Rylen shakes his head and some of the indignation turns to contented amusement. There is pleasure in teasing her.

“Again,” he says. “What am I feeling now?”

He thinks, maliciously, of Yvette herself. Not even he knows how he feels about Yvette so there is no way the woman herself will know. It is, he thinks, the perfect foil.

Then again, his plans have been slightly off as late.

He thinks of the way she was in the sparing ring, elegant, powerful, her body moving with purpose and control. The way she laughed when tricking him into thinking he had danced in the Sandy Dune. Yvette’s own face, real and here, slowly drops into one of concentration. She watches him, icy blue eyes boring into his own and and Rylen thinks, abruptly, and not _at all_ maliciously, of that same supple body underneath his hands. Her soft skin, her sculpted shape.

Of his dreams, now plagued with images of her.

He tries to temper his thoughts, panicking, but Yvette’s eyes flicker with something heated and he stops. Does she know? He doesn’t see how she could. But maybe, _maybe_?

“Desire,” Yvette says very quietly.

Rylen feels a swell of heat from beneath his collar rise up his neck, like flames licking at his jaw.

He thinks, momentarily, of reaching across the desk for her just as Yvette’s pink tongue appears from between her parted lips, wetting them. Her eyes droop ever so slightly, trailing down his face until they settle on his own.

Rylen swallows thickly.

The air in the room has suddenly become heavy.

Then, seconds before his demon possessed body goes to stand, goes to move around the desk to do something he would almost certainly regret, a shout cuts through the air from outside.

The spell breaks.

Yvette stands.

She looks anywhere but at him. Her cheeks are bright red.

“Yvette,” Rylen scrambles, standing. “I’m sorry, that was _completely_ inappropriate.”

He watches her carefully, desperate for some sign that she does not hate him. Inexplicably, she shakes her head a little and laughs.

“It’s fine Rylen,” she says, looking up at him. Eyes again flickering to some point on his jaw. “I just, I wasn’t expecting…that.”

Neither was he, Rylen thinks, and he certainly wasn’t expecting the way Yvette seemed to respond to his desire. But no, he thinks, she couldn’t possibly. And he shouldn’t even vaguely entertain the idea that she would.

They stare at each other for a moment.

“Just ah, warn a woman next time, okay?“ Yvette says, a little breathless and with a little laugh. She shakes her head as if to dislodge some errant thought she is having. “Although, that could be a masterful play in a game of Grace you know.”

“What?”

“Bringing out the seductive gaze,” Yvette says. At what Rylen assumes is his look of confusion she raises an eyebrow. “You really are clueless about some things Rylen.”

He crosses his arms over his chest.

“I have no idea what you’re alluding to.”

Yvette regards him with still-flushed incredulity. She opens her mouth, then, appearing to think twice about whatever it was she was going to say, closes it.

“I’ll give you some advice,” she says instead. “Whatever you were thinking about, don’t think about it unless your intention is to seduce someone. You could get into a whole mess of trouble with the way you looked at me just now.”

Rylen wants to tell her the truth. He wants to tell her it was _her_ he was thinking about, _her_ he wants to seduce. But then he feels a little bit ridiculous and very foolish for entertaining the idea.

What could Yvette ever see in him?

“Oh?” He says instead. “So, I’m not in trouble with you then?”

Yvette shakes her head slowly.

“I, ah, could never be mad at you for looking at me like that,” she says softly. Then she frowns down at herself and continues quickly with a shrug. “Besides, who else would I have to fleece money off of?”

“Oi,” Rylen says forcing a laugh, relieved he seems to be off the hook, but feeling that familiar sense of fumbling awkwardness he always associates with moments like these. “That’s Amelie’s position, not mine.”

“True, true,” Yvette agrees, and they laugh together.

Yes, Rylen thinks, don’t be a _fool_ , this is enough. He doesn’t have to avoid her; he doesn’t have to send any letter. He can let it play its course.

They can just have _this_. Whatever _this_ is.

~

After Rylen finishes inspecting the progress on the construction of the new siege equipment, he is about ready to fall face first into a plate of food. He is halfway between the lower levels and the Sandy Dune when there is a shout and one of his lieutenants sprints up the stairs behind him, breathless.

“Ser!” He huffs. “Ser! The Champion and Warden Stroud have returned!”

Rylen is about tell the lieutenant he will be there in a moment, right after he’s stuffed at least 3 bread rolls into his mouth and downed a stein, but then he notices the look of fear on the lad’s face and frowns.

“What is it?” He asks.

The Lieutenant’s face blanches.

“It’s the scout party,” he squeaks, on the edge of total panic. “The party-they-”

Rylen holds up a hand.

“Show me Eustace.”

He follows the lieutenant back down into the lower courtyard. As they come around the corner into the lower courtyard Rylen takes quick stock of the group of Inquisition soldiers clustered around the gatehouse entrance. Rylen spots the unmistakable blue of Warden Stroud’s uniform at the same time as the man himself spots him. They both make a beeline for each other.

“General,” Stroud says. His voice is parched, gravelly, but he looks, for all intents and purposes, fine, if not exhausted. “We were overrun, there were…casualties.”

Rylen looks past the older man. The crowd parts to allow him viewing and he sees, with horror, the dead bodies of 3 of his scouts.

He swallows, mind paralyzed for just a moment, but then reflex takes over. He waves a hand.

“Take the bodies to the mortuary,” he orders to the closest group of soldiers. He swallows. “Get them out of his heat. Someone notify Erden.”

The soldiers jump to attention, going to fetch stretchers to transport the bodies, one running off in the direction of the healers. Rylen examines the remaining scouts, several of them look like they are barely remaining conscious. They all look exhausted. He spots Hawke. She leans, dried blood caked over her face, against the stones of the gatehouse. One arm hangs limply at her side.

“All of you get to the Erden immediately.” He orders. The scouts nod wearily and begin to move. Hawke, does not. “That includes you Hawke.”

Hawke frowns at him from beneath heavy eyelids.

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Rylen snaps. “You are not fine, you’re no use to anyone like this.”

Hawke scowls at him, sinking a little lower down the wall but she does not move. Rylen lets out a angry growl and shakes his head. A hand lands on his shoulder.

“Hawke,” Stroud sighs, stepping forward. Rylen looks sideways at Stroud as he removes his hand from Rylen’s person, following the Warden’s slow movements with his eyes. The older man stops in front of Hawke and says quietly, “There is no point punishing yourself. No one blames you.”

Rylen wonders what exactly happened on the road Hawke could possibly blame herself for. He looks down at the bodies. Good men. Killed in their prime. Is this somehow her fault? He frowns before trying to temper the anger rising within him. The picture is incomplete, he thinks, best to wait. Instead, he watches as Hawke’s body slowly begins to deflate from the tension in her bones and he wonders at the ease in which Stroud seems to intuit the woman’s state of mind.

Finally, Hawke lets out a long, drawn out sigh.

“Fine,” she says. She stands unsteadily and limps toward him, toward the healers’ quarters. Rylen crosses his arms as he watches her stumble past him.

“Do you need medical attention?” He asks Stroud. The Warden shakes his head.

“I’m fine,” he says, watching Hawke as she hobbles away.

“The Hawke version or the actual version?”

Stroud gives him a sideways look.

“The actual version,” he says. “Though, I could use some food and water.”

Rylen nods.

“Of course,” he says. “We can talk in the tavern.”

Rylen gestures for Stroud to walk, falling into step beside him. The Warden is quiet as they enter the dusty building, built into the south corner of the keep and find a quiet table at the back of the room. It is mid-afternoon and blessedly the place is near empty. Rylen flags down the barmaid.

“Whatever you can rummage up please Harriet,” he says. “Warden portions.”

The blonde haired elf nods, glancing nervously at Stroud and his harried, bloodstained appearance before hurrying off.

“We were ambushed,” Stroud says without preamble. “There is a small ravine just past the wastes, on the way to Adamant. We were scouting though there when we were outnumbered by a group of Wardens, around 20, and their demons. They had already been enslaved to Corephyeus.”

Rylen nods slowly. It’s a small miracle they got away.

“How close is this ravine to the fortress?”

“A few miles perhaps.” Stroud says. “It would be the last cover before the fortress I expect.”

“You expect?”

Stroud appears to regard him with something akin to irritation.

“Well,” he says. “We weren’t able to find that out in specific. Due to the ambush.”

Rylen sets his mouth in a hard line.

“I realise it is a terrible situation Stroud,” he says. “I’m only trying to ascertain the situation.”

“Believe me General,” Stroud says tightly. “If we had been able to gather more information we would have.”

They stare at each other.

“Hawke’s last letter,” Rylen starts before realizing that he didn’t _actually_ read the last letter. It was paraphrased to him by a very nervous lieutenant. He swallows down the stab of realization and continues blindly. “Hawke said you were already quite certain of the intelligence.”

“We were,” Stroud says. “Then we got your reply. Hawke took you at your word, we tried scouting closer, then we were ambushed.”

“And I suppose you were just there, standing on the sidelines?”

Stroud levels an incredulous look at Rylen.

“I won’t pretend I couldn’t have advised her better,” he says. “But I refuse to allow either of us to be condemned for doing what you wanted.”

Stroud clears his throat and takes a sip of his ale. He observes Rylen from across the table with a frown.

“You should know that I don’t _blame_ you for the deaths of your men,” he says evenly. “But it was irresponsible baiting Hawke.”

Rylen feels anger pool in the bottom of his belly, mixing with shame and dread to create a potent mix of indignation. He clutches at defenses, but it is rapidly becoming clear, even to him, who is at fault.

“I didn’t _bait_ Hawke,” he says tightly. “She made the decision, and I meant what I wrote; we can’t drag an entire army out into the middle of nowhere without knowing for certain.”

“Well we know for certain now,” says Stroud. “You have what you wanted.”

Rylen scowls and it is only Harriet’s abrupt return that stops him from snapping at the Warden. Instead he tries to center his thoughts. Stroud thanks her quietly as she places the plates down in front of them. Suddenly, Rylen feels anything but hungry.

“I don’t appreciate your insinuation that I take any pleasure in the failure of this mission.” He hisses, tapping his fork against the table in agitation.

Stroud raises an eyebrow.

“Failure?”

“This may surprise you Stroud.” Rylen says, irritated at the implication. “But I do not consider my men’s lives a means to _any_ end.”

“And yet you forced a needlessly dangerous situation upon them?”

“ _I_ did nothing!” Rylen exclaims, dropping his fork onto his plate with a clatter. “Hawke made that choice, not me.”

“Hawke only made that choice because you clearly did not trust her judgment,” Stroud snaps. For the first time real anger graces his face.

“You think _that_ is why I asked for confirmation?”

“I _know_ that is why,” Stroud says, stabbing a knife into his sausage. “Hawke is many things, but unreliable is not one of them. To be frank, I find your ability to condemn her for being untrustworthy and then turn around and chide her for following your orders to the letter shockingly disingenuous.”

Rylen swallows down the lump in his throat.

The Warden watches him carefully and Rylen know, _knows_ , the man is reading every wrinkle. What he must see, though Rylen tries to school himself, is shame. And he will intuit what Rylen knows is to be true.

This is _his_ fault; he was careless and distracted.

Stroud sighs the sigh of a long suffering Warden Commander who has lived through any number of tragic decisions. Rylen feels abruptly like a junior captain again, inexperienced and reactive by nature.

“Believe me, I know Marian is far from innocent,” says Stroud. “But she is not the malicious fool you seem to paint her as. She is a good woman, she almost killed herself bringing back the men you saw today, the bodies included.”

Rylen remains silent.

“I don’t know what it will take for your to see past this grudge you have but you cannot continue pretending it doesn’t affect the way you view her.”

Rylen is about to open his mouth and reflexively deny what Stroud is saying. Why he should take any notice of what Stroud thinks is a bit beyond him. After all, Stroud looks like he barely lifted a finger to save anyone. But there is truth in his words and Rylen realises that denial would be a patently absurd position to take. He thinks back to his argument with Hawke on the road. He would be a fool to deny the part his prejudice has played in this outcome.

A fool would be worse still, he thinks, when he is already a hypocrite.

He puts down his cutlery sharply. The images of his dead men come forefront into his mind, and he swallows thickly. They are, after all what is most important, and he, as their General, failed them.

“I fucked up okay,” he says. “Is that what you want to hear Stroud? I fucked up; I should have trusted Hawke’s judgment. I didn’t. Now my men are dead and it’s my fault, mine alone.”

Stroud’s eyes soften for a moment. But it is not pity. It is affinity. An odd gesture, as Rylen can think of no reason why the man would have even a sliver of grace for him.

“I have no desire to watch you prostrate yourself Rylen,” Stroud says with a heavy sigh. “There is no simple fault in the business of war, just decisions and what we tell ourselves to live with them.”

The assurance is little comfort.

Footsteps reach Rylen’s ears and he tears his eyes away from Stroud’s for a moment.

Yvette is there, staring, wide eyed at Stroud with relief. She barley glances at Rylen.

“Jean,” she breathes. “Thank the Maker! I heard what happened!”

The Warden stands to greet her. _Jean_ , Rylen thinks, as Yvette clumsily embraces him.

Jealousy now, like a vice, grips his chest.

“ _Je craignais le pire,_ ” she breathes, releasing him. Stroud’s moustache bends itself upwards into a small smile.

“ _Je suis comme tu vois, bien vivant._ ”

Rylen sits there, his hands balling into fists, watching Yvette muttering in Orlesian, his mind running a million miles an hour.

He thinks of the ambush. The ambush that would not have happened had he been less driven by emotion, more focused.

He thinks of the company being overrun, the dead men he will now have to write to the families of. He thinks of how many fewer men they now have to siege an entire fortress. How many more will die if he cannot do the job he was hired to do?

He thinks of the letter still sitting in the bottom of his drawer, the letter he has not sent because he is too weak to make the _right_ decision, too weak to stop himself from making the decision that he _wants_.

He watches Yvette and the concern in her lovely features.

Jealousy, wild and irrational, brings his failings into sharp focus.

~

_Cullen,_

_If Ser Angevin is willing, we should engage his services. I have attached a copy of Stroud_ _’s debriefing from his and Hawke’s reconnaissance mission. You will note the numbers they report and the ferocity of the ambush._

_I apologize for the delay in reply, I was unwell._

_\- Rylen_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps sorry for my Google French
> 
> Je craignais le pire - I feared the worst  
> Je suis comme tu vois, bien vivant - I am as you see, very much alive.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And to think, this was meant to be fluff central

“Are you okay?”

Yvette is peering at him as he stands, taking a quick break from the endless siege preparations. Ever since Hawke and Stroud’s return, logistics have ramped up in full earnest. They have all been working long days and longer nights preparing for the arrival of Inquisition soldiers. Rylen has been avoiding bringing up the company of Chevaliers newly attached to their cause. But they will arrive soon and he will need to put them somewhere.

When he doesn’t answer, there is a nudge at his side.

“Rylen?” Yvette says, leaning over in front of him. Concern graces her lovely face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” Rylen says, and while he knows she will not believe him, what he says is technically correct. Preparations have been going smoothly. Each order executed perfectly. If he were a more cynical man he might view this good fortune with suspicion. But he has faith in his men, and he takes it as a sign from the Maker that he is making the correct decision.

It has been 4 days and several hours since he decided, quite determinedly, to distance himself from Yvette. Properly, this time. But much like she did when he first attempted such a scheme, the effect has been an increased interest in his wellbeing. It has been the longest, most excruciating 4 days of his life. It reminds him of when they first met; him playing the fool, Yvette getting increasingly more frustrated.

It does not amuse him as it once did.

“Now, I know you don’t think I’m a fool,” Yvette says with a laugh, slightly forced, ignorant of his thoughts. “Something is up, you’ve been totally strange.”

Rylen glances over at her.

“Nothing is up,” he says. “Everything is going well, great even. You would know.”

Yvette frowns for a moment. Her eyes roam across his face.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” she says. “Something is wrong with _you_. You’ve been ignoring me.”

Rylen looks away again, fiddling with the pommel of his long sword. Keeping Yvette at a distance has been a task and a half. Every inch of him wants to be closer to her and yet she is dangerous.

Every time he closes his eyes, he pictures the dead bodies of his men to remind himself of the need to remain focused. It is probably not healthy, but if someone is going to lose sanity, it should be his burden to shoulder.

“Is it about the scouting party?” Yvette says after a moment. Rylen stares a hole into the map in front of him, listening as she sighs softly and murmurs, “it wasn’t your fault Rylen.”

A hand lands on his elbow an he turns toward her abruptly, as if burnt.

“What make you think I think it was my fault?”

Yvette pauses, removing her hand slowly.

“Jean and I were talking about what happened and he thinks-”

“I don’t care what _Warden Stroud_ thinks,” he interjects icily, this is hard enough without the jealousy he still feels whenever he sees them together. “I’d appreciate you not discussing my affairs with people behind my back.”

Yvette lets out a laugh, half way between incredulity and complete bemusement.

“I hardly think you’re in position to judge me for talking about you behind your back,” she says with a raised brow. She presses her lips together and steps a little closer, hand brushing his elbow. “I’m _worried_ about you Rylen, you’ve been completely removed from yourself since last week. I mean, you’ve never been the type to share but I see it on your face. Even Amelie is worried.”

Rylen takes a step backward, not meeting her eyes.

“Amelie should mind her own business,” he says, “so should you for that matter. My feelings are my own.”

Yvette frowns at him, thoroughly confused and just a bit upset. It breaks his heart a little to make her feel like this.

It is for the best.

She opens her mouth to say something, then, apparently thinking better of what she was going to say, she shuts it.

It is for the best.

~

It is later that night when there is a knock at Rylen’s door. He gets up from his small writing desk, a letter to Ella half finished, and opens the door.

It is Yvette. She is dressed in a simple undershirt and breeches. Her hair gathered messily at the base of her neck and it looks like she has done nothing all evening except brood.

For one moment Rylen thinks he is dreaming.

“I’m sick of this Rylen.” She says, a hand planted firmly on the top of her hip. “Tell me what is wrong.”

Ah, he thinks, a nightmare.

Rylen almost shuts the door in her face but Yvette, seemingly aware of this intention, steps past him and into his room.

“Why are you being such a standoffish _arsehole_? “

“Because I _am_ a standoffish arsehole,” he says, not feeling a particular need to explain himself further.

He closes the door, deciding it best not to advertise their apparent argument to the entire keep and Yvette laughs.

“You _are_ standoffish, and you can _definitely_ be an arsehole,” she says. “But I have never known you to be a standoffish arsehole.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s makes more sense that you are making right now!”

Yvette casts her eyes about his room, a spartan space. He has placed only a small wooden figurine of Andrastre on the desk next to his writing supplies. The majority of his armor hangs on a stand in the corner, the rest sits on the ground.

“You’re being insane,” he says, regretting it the second she whirls around, her eyes wide.

“I can assure you, I can be far more insane than this.”

She looks at him expectantly.

“What do you want of me Yvette?” He sighs, though he knows what she wants of him; she wants him to be normal. Like he was. But Rylen can’t. He closes his eyes and pictures his dead men. 

He _can_ _’t_.

“I want you to tell me why you have been practically ignoring me all week,” she says. “Why you can barely look me in the eye.”

He shrugs, though he knows it will only annoy her.

“We have work to do,” he says. “I don’t have time to be _fun_.”

“Fun,” Yvette scoffs. “As if being fun and being civil are the same thing. For Makers sake. I’m not a fool Rylen, don’t treat me like one. I know something has happened and it has something to do with me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Rylen says. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Don’t flatter-” Yvette blinks several times in quick succession. She rounds on him, backing him into his desk with a finger pointed, intentionally, he doesn’t know, right at his heart. “You expect me to think that you suddenly treating me, and only me, I might add, like I’m a blighted stranger is not personal? Come on.”

Rylen decides it is probably safer to keep his mouth shut. When he says nothing, Yvette narrows her eyes.

“You’ve never been good at lying Rylen, even worse at playing dumb.” She glances away for a moment and clears her throat delicately. Then after a moment she says, “this is about Jean isn’t it?”

Rylen blinks, utter confusion taking over for a moment. Jean? What has blighted _Stroud_ got to do with any of this?

“Jean?” He says, breaking finally. “What _about_ Jean?”

Yvette looks at him with utter disbelief.

“Jean,” she says, as if repeating the man’s name again would explain anything. She swallows down something before determination lights up her eyes. “5 days ago you looked at me like you wanted to _have_ me Rylen, then Jean returned and now you refuse to talk about anything except missives. I see how you look at him when we’re together. You can’t expect me to think those things are not related.”

Rylen stares at her for a moment, heat licking at his collar. 3 thoughts run through his head in quick succession:

Yvette thinks he wants her. Correct.

Yvette thinks he thinks she is involved with Stroud. Partly correct.

Yvette thinks he is distancing himself from her _because_ of Stroud. Absolute madness.

Which is because, all other things being equal, if Rylen _were_ to be in ‘competition’ with the Warden, his first instinct would be to stake his intention, certainly not back off.

“I-” he starts, then closes his mouth to gather his wits. This conversation has taken a turn and he is not sure he is quite caught up with it yet. “You think I’m jealous because you’re involved with Stroud.”

“I _know_ you’re jealous.” Yvette says. She sighs and runs a hand over her chin. “But you needn't be, we’re _not_ involved. I like Jean, he’s a good mentor. But that’s all; a mentor. He’s a Grey Warden for Maker’s sake!”

Rylen stares at her. She looks up at him, eyes soft.

“There’s no reason for you to be jealous,” she says quietly. She licks her lips. “There’s not really any competition to be honest.”

A pause.

“I want _you_.”

Her gaze, heated now, threatens to melt the wall he has erected to keep her out. He swallows, wishing in some corner of his mind, for her vitriol to return. Her anger, he thinks, would at least cast a tempering bucket over the inferno that threatens to swallow him whole.

They stare at each other for a moment.

Yvette’s chest heaves a little. He tries to suppress the urge to lurch forward and take her into his arms. Yvette must see the look in his eyes, the same look from before, because, without warning, _she_ takes a step forward grasps his face in both her hands and pulls him down into a scorching kiss.

It is, for a second, utterly cathartic.

He grasps at her waist urgently, her shirt bunching underneath his hands. Yvette pushes herself further against him and he begins to surrender to her touch.

“Rylen,” she breathes into his mouth.

And then he realizes, like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head.

Bodies. Blood. Hawke’s look of contempt.

This is not how it should be.

“No, no, no,” he mutters into her mouth. “I can’t, we can’t, this is not- No.”

“Rylen,” Yvette murmurs, leaning into him with desperation, even as he tries to pull away, every millimeter cracking what remains of his heart into smaller and smaller pieces. “Rylen-”

He pulls away, taking a soul destroying step back from her warm body. He cannot meet the look of desire and confusion and hurt in Yvette’s eyes. Instead he stares at the carving of Andrastre.

“We cannot.” He says, surprised at the evenness in his tone. “It is inappropriate.”

Yvette takes a step toward him, to which he mirrors in reverse. She frowns as he moves away from her.

“Why can’t-” she starts. “But, why? I know you Rylen, you are not subtle, I know you want this.”

Then, a seed of doubt sprouts in her eyes.

“Don’t you?”

“I don’t,” he says. “I can’t.”

He has never been a good liar, but the words are enough to sow Yvette’s seed of doubt. She takes a shaky breath.

“You can’t.” She echoes in a shaky voice. “Why?”

He looks away. He does not answer.

“Tell me why Rylen!”

The desperation in her voice forces his eyes to once again meet her own. Confusion and hurt and anger swirl within them.

“I can’t.”

Yvette stares at him for a long moment, her eyes glassing over. Her lip quivering just a little.

“Very well.” She says, her voice restrained and a pitch higher than normal. Her eyes turn hard, and she looks at him like she did when they first me; an imitation of civility.

She turns and leaves, the door clicking closed softly behind her.

~

Rylen stands at the door to Hawke’s room anxiety wound tight around his chest, constricting his breath like a snake. He has made many mistakes in his life, most of them probably within the last month. But he’d wager most of them have come out of an intention to do good. It is rare he feels the need to apologize, rarer still the shame that settles over him now.

But it must be done.

He must get _something_ right.

There are noises from within and Rylen jumps to attention, preparing himself as the door swings open. Erden, the elderly healer, starts a little when he sees him loitering in front of the doorway.

“General Mather,” he says after a moment, smiling widely. “Come to visit Lady Marian I presume?“

Rylen nods.

“She’s quite well, the arm is healing quickly.” Erden says, answering Rylen’s non-question before turning back and flashing Hawke the same smile. Hawke sits on her bed, one arm crossed reflexively, staring a hole into Rylen’s soul. “Isn’t that right Lady Marian?”

“I feel _fantastic_ ,” she drawls. Erden nods, satisfied. If he senses anything hostile in the exchange, he indicates nothing. Rylen lets out a weak, “Ah, well that’s good”, before the man brushes past him, bidding his farewell.

Rylen stands in the door frame, trying to decide if it’s too late to leave.

“So are you going to come in or should I just wait for you to let all the cool air out?”

Rylen steps inside the room, closing the door carefully behind him.

“How do you feel?” He says, regretting the question almost immediately. Hawke eyes him with a look of complete disbelief.

“As I said,” she says. “I feel fantastic. Basically like normal.”

Rylen clears his throat, trying to ascertain just how sarcastic she is being. At least she doesn’t seem to be excessively angry. He’d half expected her to refuse to see him.

“I wanted to apologize,” he says, deciding against further preamble. Hawke cocks her head, some measure of surprise in her eyes.

“Oh?”

Rylen places both his hands behind his back, threading his fingers together neatly.

“I should not have forced you deeper into enemy territory.” He continues. “I put you in danger and it killed my men. For that I am deeply regretful.”

“I see,” Hawke says, eying him as if deciding just how much to forgive him. She stares at him for a minute, then says, “Is that it?”

Rylen frowns.

“Is that it?” He echoes in bemusement. “What, should I have brought you a gift?”

Hawke scoffs out a laugh.

“It wouldn’t have hurt,” she says thoughtfully. “But no.”

“Then what more do you want?” He says.

“You could take that look off your face for a start,” she says. Rylen frowns, wondering at the look she is referring to, but he works to settle his features all the same.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he says slowly.

At this Hawke waves her good arm at his face, amused.

“You look like a very large and very kicked puppy.” She says. “It’s _very_ irritating.”

Rylen narrows his eyes.

“So you would like me to apologize for looking sorry as well as actually being sorry?”

Hakwe sighs and props herself up in her bed a few inches. She regards him for a moment.

“You don’t have much of a sense of humor do you?”

Rylen takes a moment to blink.

“My sense of humor is fine,” he says primly, “but I was not under the impression it was an appropriate time for japes.” He clears his throat. “I can, of course, jape if it will make my apology appear more sincere.”

Hawke snorts.

“You take yourself far too seriously Rylen, Makers Breath.”

“And I’d wager you don’t take yourself seriously enough.”

“And therein,” Hawke says, theatrically lying back onto her pillow. “Lies the point.”

Rylen isn’t sure how he imagined how this conversation would play out. But it certainly never involved any of the current and exceedingly manic trains of thought racing through the room.

“I don’t understand what is happening,” he says, a little weakly. “You want more from me, but you don’t want more from me.”

Hawke sighs as if there is some great big secret that Rylen is not in on. She leans forward again, pinning him under her gaze.

“We both made bad decisions Rylen,” she says. “I can own up to my mistakes. So believe me when I say I freely take some responsibility for what happened. I don’t want more apologies from you because I think they are pointless, I harbor no grudge for your ill considered missive.”

“You don’t?” Rylen says, surprised. Hawke shakes her head.

“You were an arse, and I let it get to me.” She says, with an awkward shrug. “Now those men are dead and we _both_ have that to live with. Wallowing in our decisions makes none of their sacrifices more meaningful, I’m sure you’d agree.”

Rylen nods slowly, beginning, just slightly to understand what she is getting at.

“That’s not to say that I don’t appreciate you apologizing,” Hawke continues. “If I’m being honest, I wasn’t actually convinced you would.”

“I can admit when I’m wrong,” Rylen says.

Hawke observes him with amusement.

“I wonder _greatly_ about that.” 

Rylen looks away in irritation for a moment.

“I can,” he insists, looking back at her. He bites his tongue and sighs deeply. He is struck by a notion, one he is certain of, though he never intended to own up to so explicitly, and especially not with her.

“Which, is why,” he starts, “I also want to say sorry for letting my prejudice toward you cloud my judgment. Stroud told me that you are the reason I have any men left at all, not least bodies to bury.”

Hawke observes him, regret tinting her gaze, but it is comprised primarily of gratitude and some measure of respect.

“Thank-you,” she says. “It was a…difficult situation, but I am happy more lives were not lost.”

Rylen nods. There is a moment of silence.

“You said that you don’t want anything more from me,” he says, “but would you be opposed to a truce?”

Hawke cocks her head, her mouth quirking with pleasure.

“You mean one where we actually act like adults and work together?”

“Yes, one like that,” Rylen grumbles. Why does Hawke always have to make things so weird?

She holds out her good hand.

“General Mather,” she says, “I would love to act like adults with you.”

Rylen purses his lips. He levels the most professional expression he can manage at her.

Hawke laughs as he takes her hand.

~

Working with Hawke is surprisingly enjoyable.

Surprising, because Rylen never imagine someone like Marian Hawke, rallying cry for apostate mages from Starkhaven to Denerim, could come up with so many sensible and occasionally genius ideas. Enjoyable, because while she remains utterly insane, her levity takes the edge off his brooding.

It is hard to take himself so seriously when Hawke is making fun of him all the time.

There are several moments where he catches Hawke looking at Yvette, who has remained cool and distant ever since their ill-fated kiss. These moments always go the same way; Hawke looks at Yvette, then she looks at Rylen, then she looks very thoughtful.

Like all things concerning Yvette, Rylen tries to ignore it. A task that is, like so many times before, easier said than done. And yet. A small part of his mind has becoming increasingly insistent that if he can find a kind of middle ground with Hawke, a place that they can work from while still acknowledging their issues, then what is stopping him from doing the same with Yvette?

There is a sense of control, Rylen has come to realize, in understanding and acknowledging what he is feeling.

He hopes that, maybe, he and Yvette are not too far gone.

~

“Ser, a word?”

Yvette’s tone is light but her expression is deceptively neutral. Rylen has become so used to the subtleties of Yvette’s tone that the absence of any of them causes a small puddle of dread to pool in the bottom of his belly. He stops at the top of the stairs and waits for her to catch up. She takes 2 steps at a time and stops in front of him, slightly flushed, but face impassive.

“Did you ask Cullen to contact my father?” She asks, proffering a letter. Rylen blinks. He slips the letter from beneath her hand and reads. His stomach _sinks_.  
  


_Yvette,_

_Commander Rutherford has requested some assistance with operations in the Approach. I am on route to join your Inquisition_ _’s assault of Adamant Fortress. I write only because it would be within your interests to play nice, I have not forgotten your last letter. Do not be foolish enough to think that your freedom is afforded on anything other than my good graces. If what I’ve heard is true, there will be consequences._

_Ser Benoit Angevin_

The first thing he says is, “this is from your _father_?” Because, even after all that they have been through, Rylen still cannot truly believe any father would write so contemptuously to their child. He watches Yvette as her eyes slide to examine the stones beneath their feet. Contempt bubbles up on her behalf, deep within his chest.

“Oui,” she says, and takes the paper back with a prim hand. Rylen lifts an eyebrow to peer at her.

“He sounds like a blighted tit.” He says. Against what appears to be Yvette’s better judgment her mouth twitches. It is short lived.

“Did you ask Cullen?”

There’s no point in avoiding it.

“We need men, your father offered is services, Cullen asked my opinion.”

“So you endorsed my _father_.”

The uncomfortable pool of dread begins to fill and creep its way up the back of his throat. He had assumed this day would come, he had just hoped it would come with the addition of Yvette’s actual father. Then, at least, Yvette might have been too distracted to be angry at him for his part. A coward’s hope, he thinks glumly.

“No,” he lies. Yvette looks at him with narrowed eyes and Rylen feels distinctively like he is 10 years old again and being cornered by his older sisters. Except his sister probably wouldn’t run him through with a sword.

“No. Yes, okay.” He admits. “I didn’t endorse him _exactly_ , but Cullen asked what I thought and I, ah-”

He trails off.

“You ah….?” Yvette mocks. “You didn’t think to tell him to find some _other_ Chevalier ally?”

He did, Rylen thinks, but then he came to his senses.

“We need the men Yvette, you know that,” Rylen says. “And timing has been critical.”

“Bullshit,” she spits. “Don’t pretend I’m not privy to every logistic that goes on in this place. We’ve been planning for this for months. Another ally could have been found in the same time.”

Annoyance begins to grip his chest. Annoyance at her and annoyance at himself and his mistakes.

“And who would I suggest Yvette,” he snaps, “All those Chevaliers I know? Your father offered his services, quite to our advantage I might add, you would have me turn him away?”

Yvette huffs. She folds her arms and looks at him with furrowed brows.

“I would have you exercise some caution,” she says, "especially after..."

Rylen tries to ignore the look of betrayal in her eyes. 

“I can’t control what Cullen does,” he says.

“He asked your counsel!” Yvette snaps. “He values your judgment.”

Rylen clears his throat.

“To be honest Yvette, I really don’t see what the problem is,” he lies. “We need men, now we have men. Fortresses don’t sack themselves.”

“I-The problem-” She begins though gritted teeth, fixing him with such a look of complete incredulity that Rylen is compelled to look down at his shoes like a 4 year old. “Are you being serious right now Ser, because I can’t tell if you’re actually as dense as that would imply.”

Rylen looks back up, scowling, insulted even. How dare he be painted as such a villain in this situation. Yes, he regrets sending the letter. Oh does he regret that blighted letter! Yes, he knows that having Yvette’s tit of a father here will be fun for exactly no one. He even knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it might be dangerous for Yvette, having Benoit here. But this is war and he has good motives, and Maker be _damned_ Yvette is an adult.

It’s not his fault Orlesians are all as mad as a bag of cats.

”Don’t pretend that you didn’t know the risks of your behavior.” He says. “You told me yourself! You said you wanted control, here is a chance to prove it to him.”

“Oh _fuck_ off.”

Yvette stares at him with an icy expression.

“Do _not_ try and turn your bad decision into my ‘learning experience’. I had about enough of your ‘tutelage’ back in Haven as I could handle.”

“This is not _my_ bad decision,” he says, trying to ignore the unexpected hurt of her comment. “It is a practical decision, one I would have thought you would be able to appreciate regardless of the personal circumstances-”

“Yeah, okay,” she cuts him off with a wave and starts walking away from him.

“Your father is bringing a _company_ of Chevaliers,” Rylen calls as he follows her. “What do you expect me to say? That I’ll refuse the offer of 100 elite soldiers just because your father dislikes you? If I was that sort of man Yvette, I would have send _you_ back to Velrun long ago.”

Yvette’s quickens her pace, ignoring him. Some of the men on watch peer at them curiously.

“Hey,” he says after a moment, catching her up. He is beginning to feel real anger from her erratic and frankly insubordinate behavior. He should have foreseen this, this is always what happens when someone becomes too familiar. He recalls, rather rudely, the feel of her lips against his own.

Yes, far too familiar.

“What is _wrong_ with you?”

Yvette continues to hurry in the direction of the war tent. He lunges forward to grasp her upper arm.

“Lieutenant Garis, I am speaking to you!”

Yvette spins round, knocking her arm from his grasp in one fluid movement. Her hand twitches toward her sword belt momentarily as she steps toward him, forcing him to take a step backward. Around them some of the men on evening watch have begun muttering at the exchange. Yvette notices too and nods toward the war tent. He follows her.

“Tell me Ser,” she says as they enter the tent, “what do you _think_ is wrong with me?”

Rylen throws his hands up in the air.

“I don’t know Yvette, I’m not a blighted mind reader am I? I thought we were over this stupid game.”

“Game? This isn’t a _game_ Rylen,” she hisses. “For once could you just try to appreciate what another person is feeling for just a moment.”

“I just don’t understand what the big deal is,” he reiterates. “Your father was bound to find out you were in Orlais, he was bound to find out about the mask. What did you think would happen Yvette?”

“I _thought_ that my…superior would have my back,” she snaps. “You dare to lecture me on control but you have taken that away from me by forcing this hand upon me.”

Rylen scowls.

“Don’t blame me for your insane family,” he snaps. “You’ve know me for long enough I think to understand that I have little interest in Orlesian dramatics.”

Yvette looks at him and shakes her head in such a condescending way that it makes him fume. Why is she treating _him_ as if he is the one being completely insane right now?

“Why am I the only one ever punished for bad cultural habits?” She says. “I’ve _never_ complained about your predilection for being bull headed, for being so _blighted_ black and white.”

“I’ll take that to mean pragmatic.” He says.

Yvette rolls her eyes

“You know Orlesians may be dramatic, but at least we’re not repressed.” She says coldly. “Reading between the line might be circuitous, but at least I’m not scared of what might be there.”

Rylen crosses his arms over his chest. Heart thrumming in his chest.

“I am not scared.” He says.

Yvette shakes her head again.

“You know what?” She says. “Forget it, forget I ever mentioned any of it.”

“Good.” Rylen says. He is sick of this conversation. Anger has overtaken any sense of regret he might have had and now he just wants to be rid of Yvette’s blighted face.

Yvette takes a step toward the tent flap then stops and looks at him.

“You know, I had a notion that maybe we could have really had something,” she says. Through his heightened emotion a vague nausea settles deep in his stomach. “Clearly that is not the case, so I apologize for my forwardness, _Ser_. In every respect. It won’t happen again.”

~

The day before her father arrives, Yvette begins wearing her mask again.

~

Ser Benoit Angevin rides into Griffin Wing two days after All Souls Day with his company of chevaliers, armor gleaming under the late afternoon sun. On a cerebral level Rylen is glad of the added man-power, soldiers as skilled as Chevaliers are valuable allies. But as soon as he locks his eyes on the festooned, highly polished man, a sense of dread begins to weigh heavily on his shoulders. Yvette’s father is a tall man, broad across the chest and wields a full face of silver filigree. It is impossible to tell what he truly looks like. But Rylen doesn’t need to see his face to know he is an asshole.

“You must be the General,” Benoit greets, eyes icy, tone cool. He looks around the courtyard. He sees, Rylen supposes, a dusty backwater keep with little to recommend it. Rylen feels vaguely defensive. Griffin Wing has becomes a kind of home despite everything.

“Aye,” Rylen says, holding out a hand. “Welcome to Griffin Wing Keep.”

Benoit looks at it for a moment, then shakes it, his grasp as cool as his eyes.

“Is Commander Rutherford here?” He says and Rylen knows a dismissal when he hears one.

“No, he’s still a few days out.”

Benoit sniffs.

It is, if Rylen is honest, exactly what he should have expected.

~  
  


“You look like a dirty man. That uniform is a disgrace.”

Rylen stops in the shadow of the tent he is passing, a familiar Orlesian accent floats around the corner ahead. He tells himself he is not eavesdropping.

“I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re not at the Winter Palace,” Yvette replies, her tone ice cold. “Unlike you, I cannot bring an entire wardrobe with me to the Approach.”

“The Approach precludes bathing as well does it?”

“It’s a desert father, what do you expect? Perfumes?”

Benoit hums.

“You _have_ gotten mouthy,” he observes and Rylen can hear the sneer in his tone. “Jaques was right.”

There is a pause.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Benoit drawls, “you’ve been out of the Game for too long if you didn’t think I had tabs on you.”

“Of course I knew,” Yvette snaps. “I’m not an idiot, and you’re losing your touch if you think Jaques is a good informant.”

In his effort to hear better Rylen leans forward and almost topples over a pile of crates. He panics as he steadies them but neither person seems to notice the noise.

“He told me you’ve stopped wearing your mask.” Benoit says.

“I suppose he told you what colour underwear I’m wearing as well.”

“He values his life too much for that kind of intelligence. Not that I have the slightest bit of interest in what underthings you wear,” Benoit says, amused. “Though perhaps I could ask the General if I did.”

Rylen freezes, wondering how on Thedas, Yvette’s father has any idea about their relationship, but Yvette scoffs.

“Is that what Jaques told you?”

Benoit laughs.

 _“He_ didn’t need to tell me anything Yvette, though, of course, he _did_ , the General isn’t exactly subtle about his leanings, as I’ve heard it.” There is a short, derisive laugh. Rylen wonders again at how he apparently managed to become as easy to read as a book. Benoit continues, “but I have eyes, I’ve known your tells since you were a child. Tell me dear daughter, did he reject you? Is that why you look like a sop every time you look at him?”

Rylen hears Yvette’s intake of breath, his own blood thrums in his ears.

“He is my superior.”

“Like that’s ever stopped anyone.” Benoit says dismissively, his voice shifting as he moves. He sniffs. “I really am curious though Yvette. What exactly was your plan? Were you going to just pretend you were not an Angevin, trap this Marcher into an ill-fated romance with you?”

There is a pause.

“I wonder, is this why you refused to return after Haven? Have you been pining over him all this time?” Benoit makes a mocking noise. “How embarrassing it must be that he doesn’t want you.”

There is a pause. Rylen can practically hear the smirk on the man’s face.

“You really are an arsehole,” Yvette says very quietly. Benoit laughs.

“Call me what you want, but you know I’m right.”

The is a pause. Yvette clears her throat primly.

“You are not right,” she says, her voice hardening, becoming clearer. “I did not return, because I _detest_ you. Blame Rylen for my choices if you will, but they have not been by virtue of my feelings for him, it is because he gave me the courage to stand up against you.”

Yvette makes a noise, satisfied in her piece and Rylen listens as she walks away from her father, last word in hand.

~

Cullen hops off the back of his horse, baggy eyed, the weight of the world on his shoulders, but a smile on his face. They embrace and Rylen realizes only now just how much he had missed Cullen’s presence. He finds, quite unexpectedly, that he has been desperate for his friend’s presence.

“You look awful,” Cullen says, appraising him. “The desert doesn’t suit you?”

“The desert suits me fine,” Rylen says. He directs Cullen toward the stairs. “It’s the company.”

Cullen exhales a laugh.

“Chevaliers are always a coin toss,” he says, grinning wryly. “Is the Herald here?”

“No,” Rylen says, wondering how to word his reply. “He ah- popped out for spot of…dragon hunting.”

Cullen pauses mid step. He shakes his head, bemused amusement in his brow, and continues.

“Maker’s Breath.” He says. “I swear he’s getting more reckless by the day. Probably Bull’s influence.”

“I think it relaxes him,” Rylen says, thinking about the Dalish Mage. He arrived 5 days before Cullen, 3 days before Benoit and after 2 days of endless preparations had declared his need to ‘get some air’. Rylen hasn’t seen him since, save for a daily raven.

“He seems to enjoy taking on dangerous little side projects,” Rylen says, “all I needed to do was mention that Orlesian professor near Nazaire's Pass and off he went.”

“Sounds like something he’d do.” Cullen says and shrugs. Remarkably nonplussed for, well, himself. Rylen supposes he has had half a year to get used to the Inquisitor’s antics. “Whatever keeps him happy. Maker knows he can do what he likes if it keeps him sane. As long as he doesn’t get himself killed.”

Rylen hums in agreement as they reach the top of the keep. He directs Cullen toward the war tent.

“He said he’d be back to help with the final preparations,” Rylen says, Yvette stands as he and Cullen enter. His gaze lingers on her; he has not stopped thinking about her talk with her father. “Not that there’s much to do, except rehash the planning.”

Cullen nods as he examines the map carefully lain across the large wooden table dominating the center of the tent.

“I have transcribed the rest of the orders for the captains Ser,” Yvette approaches them both. She salutes to Cullen. “Commander. It is good to see you.”

“Likewise Lieutenant Garis,” Cullen greets, gesturing toward the table. “Seems you’re still doing a good job whipping Rylen into some kind of order.”

Yvette regards Rylen coolly and it burns him. He has found since she berated him for endorsing her father’s assistance, that he has never regretted anything so much in his life as he has sending that letter to Cullen. The kiss may have been ill considered, but it resulted only in hurt and mutual embarrasment. The letter, he thinks, was a betrayal, as his initial instinct had judged it to be.

Rylen finds he can’t even be relieved that at least now the letter has given a good reason for their increased distance. He just feels regret. They’re about to assault a fortress that has stood for hundreds of years and he will probably die regretting that letter.

It is a depressing thought.

“The General is easy to order,” Yvette says simply.

Cullen laughs and Rylen wonders how she can be so charming when he knows she hates him, _truly_ hates him now. Cullen, noticing his tight smile, looks, far too shrewdly, between him and Yvette, and, for a second, Yvette’s smile falters.

“Have either of you had dinner?” Cullen asks, trying in his virtuous way to alleviate some tension. Rylen shakes his head, but before he can speak, Yvette replies with a curt, “thank you for the offer Commander but I have some work I need to get back to.”

“Of course.”

She walks back to her desk. Cullen turns to look at him with questioning eyes.

“Shall we get some food?”  
  
~

“She kissed you?” Says Cullen, leaning forward with _far_ too much interest. “Really?”

“I rather think you’re missing the point.” Rylen says tightly after his extensive explanation. “She hates me because I endorsed her father.”

“Well I’m not surprised,” Cullen says. “You should have said something. I had no idea he was her father, and I had no idea there was such sordid history! If I had known about extent of the situation I would have tried to find others if I could.”

“I’m surprised Lady Montyliet had nothing to say,” Rylen says.

“Oh she had plenty to say,” Cullen says, “I was given quite the impressive what for after she found out. But Ser Benoit was quite receptive and by the time she did it was too late to refuse. Politics, you know.”

Rylen nods. Politics indeed. Cullen sighs, a look of shame flits across his face.

“I should have vetted it properly,” he says. “But there’s so much going on and with the timing, the offer was far too good to refuse.”

Yes, Rylen thinks, far too good.

“It is not your fault,” he says with a sigh. “It would not have been worth jeopardizing the mission anyway. You’ve seen the camp outside, Benoit’s men will win us this siege.”

Cullen hums.

“You believe that?”

“Of course I do.”

“No,” Cullen says with a wave of his hand. “Do you really believe trying to find others would have jeopardized the mission?”

Rylen sighs heavily. He toys with the food on his plate.

“Maybe. I don’t know,” he says, looking across at Cullen. “I don’t know what I believe to be honest. I deeply regret putting her at risk but she is an adult. Her father already had tabs on her, it’s not like I’ve exposed her.”

Cullen looks at him for a very long time. Despite the bags under his eyes, they are clear, shrewd.

“Do you think he poses a credible threat to her safety?” He says finally.

“I don’t know,” Rylen admits. He has been feeling distinctly uncertain recently, it’s messing with his head. Everything used to seem so clear, not so now. “Yvette seems to think so, but it doest make much sense to me why he’d choose now, or that he’d even do it in the first place. You’d think these noble types would use guilds to do all their dirty work.”

Cullen nods, cutting his sausage into neat, even pieces.

“That’s what I’d assume,” he says, “still, it would certainly be a foolish move to do it in the middle of an Inquisition stronghold.”

“Aye!” Rylen exclaims. He runs his hands over his own tired eyes. “It’s all far too cloak and dagger for me Cullen, and in service of what? Yvette chooses, quite rationally, that she wishes to make her own way, and it puts her in danger. It’s absurd!”

Cullen’s eyebrows rise and fall with a sigh.

“It is ridiculous,” he agrees, “but If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past year, it’s that you can’t ignore people’s stupidity just because you don’t agree with it.”

“So you think we should just accept it?” Rylen says, leveling his gaze at Cullen’s irritatingly reasonable expression. For perhaps the first time since hes known him, Rylen finds himself in a position where Cullen’s wisdom makes him want to rip his hair out, and he doesn’t quite know why. Usually Rylen is the one being reasonable and detached.

“Acceptance is not the same thing as acknowledgment,” Cullen says. “You’ve always seen things as very black and white, but you can’t change people’s minds by ignoring how they feel.”

“You think I should have taken it more seriously,” Rylen says, stabbing his sausage with more force than is strictly necessary.

“I do,” Cullen says, he peers at Rylen. “But politics is neither of our fortes. I certainly never would have imagined you developing feelings for an Orlesian noblewoman, especially one you professed to find so especially annoying last time we saw each other.”

Rylen stares at him.

“I don’t have _feelings_ for Yvette,” he says, ignoring Cullen’s incredulous expression. “I’m attracted to her, there is a difference. She’s my _subordinate_ for maker’s sake! We work well together. We spend a lot of time together, I mean I care about her but not in…well not in _that_ way.”

Cullen is still peering at him, still incredulous. Rylen feels the overwhelmingly childish urge to keep running his mouth full of excuses.

“She’s a beautiful woman,” he tries. ”Of course, I would find myself drawn to her.”

“Of course,” Cullen says, with an amused smile.

“And for the record, she is remains annoying as ever.”

Rylen finds his hackles rising with every twitch of Cullen’s mouth. He places his cutlery down on his plate.

“Why in the Maker’s name are you bloody smiling?”

Cullen places his own cutlery neatly on the wooden table and leans back in his chair.

“You know,” he says. “Off all my friends, I don’t think I would have picked you as the one who would fall in love during this madness.”

A sense of unsettling nervousness forms in the pit of Rylen’s stomach.

“Love,” he splutters. “You think I’m in _love_ with Yvette?”

Cullen raises an eyebrow.

“You’re not a hard man to read.”

“Maker’s Blighted Breath,” Rylen mutters. “Why does everyone keep saying that!”

He searches around for something, anything, to provide a reprieve from Cullen’s persistent and highly unwelcome insight.

Cullen pops a fork full of sausage into his mouth, eyes not leaving Rylen’s as he chews. Very slowly.

“Okay,” Rylen breaks. “Okay fine, I have-there may be some kind of… _feelings_ , but I can assure you, it is not even close to love. It is certainly nothing I can’t handle.”

Cullen swallows and laughs.

“Oh I very much doubt that,” he says. “You are about as good at handling personal emotions as I am, Rylen, and that’s saying something.”

Rylen huffs.

“Well, whatever the case, she hates me. That’s it.”

Cullen laughs again and Rylen wants to punch him in his handsome, chiseled face.

“Then do something about it man!” He says, his expression turning sincere. “You’re the great problem solver of the Starkhaven circle! Why do you think I wanted you as my second? If you really do have feelings for Yvette, find a way to make it better.”

He pins Rylen with a earnest gaze and Rylen wonders when, exactly, Cullen became so hopeful.

“Find a way to fix it.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay, I struggled a lot with ending this to my satisfaction but finally we get some fluff and a resolution :)

It takes 4 and a half days for the siege train to make the march across the wastes.

Rylen spends most of his time alongside Cullen, talking about nothing much really. There is nothing left to plan, only to anticipate and adapt to. Rylen imagines that if pressed, he could recite every order from memory, in his sleep. Indeed, each night since they left Griffin Wing, has started with dreams about the event itself. Rylen finds that this often happens before a big event. His entire life, even his childhood, the Fade has responded to his stresses with bizarre performances, concocted from his subconscious anxieties. Sometimes they are straightforward. Most of the time they are not. The day before he took the boat across the Waking Sea, he dreamed of large fish with Mabari heads buffeting him in a small coracle. Lately, his dreams have involved some compilation of him running endlessly around a physically impossible fortress, a giant bird screeching at him, searching for a Grey Warden with a moustache as big as his arm.

He refuses to dwell on what it might mean.

Cullen is optimistic. A mood that, Rylen realizes after observation, stems from the Inquisitor’s own remarkable good humour. They are confident, he realizes, confident in this siege, and Rylen realizes that he too, is confident. It is never wise to underestimate the opponent, but it is hard not to look at the force they have assembled and feel, at the very least, prepared. Rylen tempers himself with the memories of the failed scouting party, but even that is tinted with a sort of determination.

Their deaths will not be in vain.

Cullen, of course, pesters him over and over as to if he has spoken to Yvette yet. “Since when did you become a closet romantic?” Rylen grumbles. But Cullen only grins. “Nothing wrong with a bit of good news in these troubled times.”

Rylen hasn’t talked to Yvette. He has barely looked her in the eyes. He is torn, uncertain still despite his friend’s encouragements and he and Yvette both have enough to worry about without adding his clumsy feelings into the mix. He does not want to place more onto her by bringing up the state of their relationship. After all, what is a declaration of feeling, when there is a war to wage? This is real life, not some saccharine novella.

And yet.

Rylen sees the way she looks at her father. He sees the way her father looks at her. He sees the way the other Chevaliers sneer and whisper behind her back. Rylen might be easy to read, but Yvette, in her subtle way, has taught him to read others. He reads into their thinly veiled comments and he sees the way her jaw hardens in anger each time.

_He gave me the courage to stand up against you._

If Rylen dies in this siege, he thinks, at least he has done that for her.

Rylen wonders over and over about whether Benoit had been speaking a truth when he asserted that Yvette had been pining over him all this time. He tells himself that the arsehole was intentionally riling her up. But then he thinks about the lack of refutation from Yvette and he sighs quietly into his bedroll at night.

He dreams turn then, from moustachioed Wardens and warren fortresses, to vignettes of him and Yvette, at peace.

~

“We need to talk,” he decides finally.

They have stopped for the final camp in Stroud’s ravine. The Warden is right, seemingly as always, the ravine is the last piece of cover before the half mile stretch of land that separates them from Adamant. As soon as they do, the soldiers begin to work furiously constructing the makeshift city that will be their home for the long battle ahead. It is a mammoth operation. It is past sunset before all the lodgings are completed.

Yvette looks up from the tent she is about to enter for the night. Her steely eyes examine him for a moment beneath her mask. Then, she straightens and nod to the others.

“Don’t wait up.” She says to them, before following him.

Rylen leads her to a quiet corner of the camp, near the water barrels and away from prying ears. He has planned this conversation a thousand times over the last few days but when he turns to look at her, he suddenly has no idea what to say. She stares at him expectantly. He thinks of Cullen’s advice.

“How can I make this right?”

Yvette blinks at him, she clears her throat primly.

“What do you mean?”

Rylen purses his lips. She is not going to make this easy, but he will not allow her to bait a rise out of him. Keep it straightforward, he thinks, no arguing, no funny business, no _games_.

“How can I make the mistake I made with your father right?” He clarifies. “How can I make our _relationship_ right again?”

He holds a breath as Yvette cocks her head.

“Our relationship?” She says with pantomime curiosity. “And what relationship would that be?”

“You know what relationship,” Rylen says.

“I’m not sure I do _Ser_ ,” Yvette says crisply. “I have no current issue with your conduct as my commander.”

Rylen clenches his jaw.

“So, we are going to play it like this then?” 

Yvette shrugs.

“You’re the one who wanted to talk.”

“Look,” he says, tapping his foot in agitation. “Play your game if you want but I cannot go into this fight doing nothing about the wrong I have done to you Yvette. I cannot. So, tell me what I need to do to make it right.”

“I see,” Yvette says. “So, it is _my_ responsibility to tell you what you did wrong so you can apologize for it.”

Rylen grits his teeth.

“That is not what I mean,” he says, clenching a fist in front of him. “Do not twist my words like that, Yvette. Maker, I know what _I_ would do, but this isn’t about me.”

Yvette stares at him for an almost uncomfortably long stretch of time. She glances quickly to her left before sighing.

“To be honest Rylen, I don’t know what you can do,” she confesses, “you must understand, you really hurt me by wilfully acting against my interests. I _know_ that there is more, much more, to consider in an operation like this. It was never about dropping everything to cater to me. But the fact that you seemed to care so little about how I would even _feel_ about my father being here, let alone the practical consequences, is _hurtful_.”

Rylen glances away from her painful gaze.

“I realize that now,” he says. “I dismissed the danger of your family because I thought it was insane, I _still_ think it’s insane, but I realize now that’s not how it works.”

Yvette hums sadly.

“Yes, well. I suppose it’s gratifying to hear you say that.”

She looks away from him for a moment, a tinge of red dusting the tips of her ears.

“Then when we…kissed, and you-” she looks back at him, anger burning in her eyes. “It was _humiliating_ Rylen, you made me feel like I was nothing to you, less than nothing; dirt. A rejection is one thing, but you couldn’t even tell me why! I was not even worth an explanation, even after all we have been through together.”

A wave of nausea hits his stomach and Rylen reaches his hand forward without thinking. He stops himself before he can rest it on her arm.

“I,” he starts, shame now flooding his veins, his hand hanging between them like a limp fish. He clenches his fist and moves it back to his side.

Yvette watches this, a hard expression on her face.

“I am sorry.” He finishes, weakly, none of this is coming out how he wanted. It feels as if his feelings are like wads of wool in his throat; they won’t budge and when they do, they are coughed up like vomit.

“I’m so, bloody, blighted sorry Yvette. I reacted badly that night. Not to excuse myself, but I was not in a good place then and you pushed me and we both know that I am a repressed arse who doesn’t understand people half the time. I thoughtlessly ignored your feelings because I was letting my own control me. But I can assure you, the way I’ve treated you is not at all indicative of how I _truly_ feel.”

Yvette examines his face for a moment.

Rylen’s stomach turns, not entirely uncomfortably, at the look in her eye.

“As much as it pleases me to hear you admit to being an arse Rylen,” Yvette says. “You cannot just tell me you feel a certain way, when every thing you have done in the meantime indicates to me that you think of me only as a colleague, barely even a friend.”

“That is not how I think of you,” Rylen insists.

“Tell me now then,” Yvette challenges, “the honest Mather truth, how do you think of me?”

Rylen looks at her.

She is, without a doubt, the most vexing, challenging, incredibly annoying woman he has ever known. But all these things only endear her to him. Who else but Yvette would have the intelligence, the understanding, the Maker given _patience,_ to perfectly complement to his grouchy, adversarial demeanour? Who else but Yvette would be able to put up with his patronizing lessons, his scolding, and come out a stronger, more assertive person?

Who else but Yvette?

The woman he now realizes, he loves.

He opens his mouth to reply but there is a shout.

Amelie runs up to them, out of breath and with a wide look of alarm on her face.

“I’ve been looking for your everywhere!” She says to Yvette, hugging her tightly. “Thank the Maker!”

“Amelie?” Rylen grits out. The woman looks panicked enough to given him pause, but he can’t help but feel like she’s just walked up to him and smacked him in the face with a hammer. “What in Makers name is going on?”

Amelie glances between him and Yvette. She looks nervous, nervous of him he thinks. He looks at Yvette, who glances at him before nodding to the half-elf.

“You were right,” Amelie says. “You father, you were right!”

Rylen looks between the two women in confusion.

“Amelie, tell me what is going on?”

“My father is going to try and kill me.”

Yvette watches his reaction with an unsettling amount of calm.

Rylen balks.

“What.” He says. “You cannot be serious? How do you know this?”

“Yvette asked me to do some digging,” Amelie says. “Said she had a suspicion.”

“And?”

“And I received a tip from one of his men,” Amelie says, brows knitted together in concern. She turns her attention to Yvette. “He says it’s meant to happen during one of the pushes inside the walls, made to look like a casualty of the assault.”

Rylen’s chest constricts. Fear, potent and debilitating, grips his ribcage like a monstrous hand. Panic threatens to burst from his throat like vomit and he knows that he has never been as scared as he is now.

He cannot lose her, not to her father, not to anything.

He cannot lose her, now that he realizes with such stark clarity what she means to him.

Yvette nods and it almost makes him lose his Maker-dammed mind.

“The siege is the perfect cover,” she says, crossing her arms.

“The perfect cover!?” he exclaims. He glances around, hoping to see Cullen hiding behind a barrel, playing a prank, or perhaps a Warden with a moustache the size of his arm, just so he will know this is all some kind of fucking ludicrous dream.

“I thought he might wait,” Yvette says, “but it makes sense to do it now.”

“You knew about this, all this time?” Rylen splutters. He would ask why she did not come to him with such pertinent intelligence, but the fact that she did not does enough to highlight just how much he has jeopardized their trust.

“I suspected,” Yvette clarifies with an infuriatingly casual shrug of one shoulder. “Father has long wanted an excuse to be rid of me.”

Rylen steps forward fervently.

“How can you be so calm about this Yvette?”

Yvette cocks her head at his sudden closeness, looking him up and down.

“Don’t mistake my acknowledgment for acceptance,” she says. “I don’t intend to lie down and accept my fate.”

Rylen nods, pleased she seems to be thinking clearly at the very least. Amelie, too, looks relieved.

“Well, good.” He says, waving a hand. “We can make some excuse. Keep you here, out of the battle, under supervision.”

Amelie nods in agreement.

“I can get Martha to lead your regiment,” she says eagerly. “She is skilled enough.”

Rylen turns back to Yvette.

“We can talk about it with Cullen afterward. Get Josephine involved. Find some solution.” He clenches his fists. “I’ll confront the man himself if it comes to it.”

“Optimistic, aren’t we?” Yvette says, her eyebrow raised

“Practical,” Rylen retorts.

“We’re not going to let that limp dick kill you Vett,” says Amelie with fervour. “Don’t worry about the siege, I’ll make sure Martha is notified.”

Yvette says nothing and instead crosses her arms at she watches Amelie scurry away.

Rylen is so certain in this plan that he almost misses the exasperated look Yvette gives him.

“We’re changing nothing,” she says, turning to him once Amelie is out of range. “I am _not_ staying out of the battle.”

Rylen’s heart stops for a just a moment. He stares at her in disbelief.

“What? You can’t possibly- it’s _suicide_. Did you not hear what was just said Yvette?” He lowers his voice. “Your father is going to try and kill you!”

Yvette sighs quietly.

“I heard what was said perfectly fine,” she says primly. “And I _certainly_ enjoyed everyone deciding what I was going to do for me. But I made my choice, like you said, and this is the consequence. I choose to face it how I will.”

Rylen growls.

“That is not what I meant when I said you knew what the consequences of your actions would be.”

“And what other consequences could there possibly have been Rylen?” Yvette says tightly. “What did you _expect_ would happen? That my father would tip his masque and say good day? That is not how this works.”

“I cannot allow you to take part in the battle,” he snaps. “Not when you have this target on your back.”

Yvette cocks her head at him.

“I would be a target anyway,” she says, “how is it different just because my father is among the enemy?”

“Because he’s _your_ father!”

Yvette sets her lips in a thin line.

“He might know my tells, but I know his,” she says, a touch too arrogantly, though he knows Yvette can well hold her own. “It has been a long time since he has seen me fight and I am not going in blind.”

“Your arrogance will get you killed,” he grits out. “It doesn’t matter how long it has been, if you are fighting a battle on two fronts your focus will become divided soon or later. Then he will strike!”

“And the focus of whatever cretin he’s hired to kill me will also be divided,” Yvette says calmly.

Rylen stares at her. He can _almost_ not believe that she is serious about this absolute madness. But this is Yvette, stronger, more assertive. He curses himself. One look at her face, one note of her voice and he knows; she is completely serious.

“As your _commander_ I cannot allow it.”

Yvette looks at him.

“So, this is how we are playing it then _general_?” She sneers. “ _This_ is how you truly feel? I am a subordinate, to order?”

A keen stab of anger pierces through Rylen’s desperation.

“Do _not_ play games with how I truly feel. Not now.” He says, voice low. “Not _now_.”

“Oh?”

“Commander or no, subordinate or no. I will _not_ allow you to throw your life away because it’s the fucking ‘done thing’ in Orlais!” Rylen hisses. “I refuse! We will figure this out, like _civilized_ people; _without_ putting you in danger.”

“I’m already _in_ danger,” Yvette snaps, staring him down. “If you didn’t want me in danger you should have thought harder before you invited my father here. He doesn’t give two shits about whatever you might consider the ‘done thing’, can you not see that Rylen? This is not about what _you_ think should happen. This is not, nor has ever been, your decision to make!”

Yvette’s chest heaves from her tirade, breathless.

“I am _sick_ and tired of looking over my shoulder,” she continues, “hoping my father will be generous enough to grant me what is mine by right; my life! I will _not_ let his whims, or my feelings for you, change the way I live my life any longer!”

Despite the exhausted lines on her face, Yvette is defiant, fire burning in her eyes.

Rylen’s heart breaks a little, why now?

“We will find another solution.” He implores, grasping her by the upper arms. “Don’t be a fool!”

“There is no other solution!” Yvette snaps, wriggling against his grasp. “What do you think you are going to do Rylen? Keep me under guard for the rest of my life?”

“It that’s what it took!”

Yvette stills. She looks at him very carefully and takes a steadying breath.

“You asked me,” she says slowly, “what you could do to make it right?”

Rylen’s stomach drops.

“ _This_ is what will make us right.” Yvette says. “But if you take this choice away from me Rylen, if you cannot respect this, I will never forgive you.”

They stare at each other for a moment.

Rylen lets her go and steps back.

Take away her choice or let her march to her death; no matter what he does, he risks losing Yvette forever.

There is no possible way to win.

He drops his head, despair threatening to overcome him, to drown him.

But this is not a game. There is no win and no lose, only him and Yvette and no matter what comes, she will know how he truly feels.

“ _I_ was wrong,” he says, looking up. It is so abrupt, that Yvette blinks. “Wrong about you, wrong about me. Wrong about _everything_ Yvette. I endorsed your father because I thought it was the only way I could prove to myself I was unaffected by you. I rejected you because I thought being with you would make me weaker. But it was not you who was making me weak, it was _me,_ only me, it was because I was too scared to acknowledge what I felt, and I let that fear rule me.”

He takes a breath, he looks into her beautiful, intelligent blue eyes.

“I care about you Yvette, _very much_. More than is advisable under the current circumstances, but Maker be damned I no longer care. Somewhere between the sieges, and battles and preparing for sieges and battles, I fell for you. I…love you. I will not pretend to be happy about you offering yourself up to that sorry excuse for a man, but if it is what it takes, I will gladly stand by your side as you do.”

There is a moment of silence and Rylen hears nothing except the pounding of his frightened heart against the cage of his chest.

Then, Yvette reaches forward and there is a hand under his chin. She looks at him, tenderness blooming behind her gaze and reaches up to remove her mask with her other hand. She tosses it to the side with a clatter. A soft flush rises from beneath the collar of her shirt and Rylen thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful than this.

He leans forward, resting his forehead against hers, and breathes her in. The smell of rosewater and sweat, so familiar, and slowly, he tilts his face, leans forward and kisses her.

Yvette sighs as their lips meet and after a moment her hands run their way up into his dusty hair.

Rylen bring her closer, wanting, needing, desperately to make this last as long as he possibly can. He tries to convey in his kiss just how much he cares for her, just how deeply he feels for her. But it is impossible.

Rylen would need a million kisses to truly convey to Yvette the depth of what he feels.

After a time, Yvette pulls away from him gently, breathing heavy, needing air.

“That was quite the speech” she says, breathless, leaning her forehead against his own. She holds this for a moment, before pulling back a few inches and looking away. “I should say too that I was also wrong. I was too quick to hold you responsible for my father’s actions. You were right. This has been a long time coming, I was a fool to pretend like I could avoid it forever.”

“You don’t have to avoid it anymore,” Rylen murmurs. He caresses her face with his hands. Her skin is fever hot beneath his palms. “But that doesn’t mean you have to play into his hands. Please Yvette.”

Yvette looks at him, her gaze drifting across his face. She smiles sadly.

“I need to do this,” She says very quietly. “I think you understand why.”

_I wish to be free._

He didn’t understand Cullen then, but he understands Yvette now. And it kills him, this understanding. It paralyses him. It is a curious feeling, he thinks, to care so much that he would do anything to change Yvette’s mind. Anything to save her. He would take her place if he could. He would lock her inside Griffin Wing and keep her safe if he could.

But he can’t.

And he understands why.

This is her choice, hers alone.

He envisages a future where he confines Yvette to her tent, stops her from facing whatever horror her father has in store for her. It is a future where she despises him. A future where he fails anyway because Yvette would find a way. This Yvette, so different from the Yvette that sat on his desk so many moons ago. And yet not different at all, merely more assertive in a strength she has always possessed.

He closes his eyes. An emptiness rolls over him, but in its wake; a curious sort of peace.

It is the feeling of his dreams.

“I do understand,” he says, because in the end, this is the only right thing to say. He drops his hands from her face, to her shoulders. He moves to step away, but the sensation of Yvette’s hand running its way up his jaw draws a shaky breath from his chest.

“This is not the end Rylen,” she says, and even from behind his closed lids Rylen can hear her smile. “Trust me, I will not allow father to take yet another thing from me, not now that I know the man I love, loves me back.”

Rylen opens his eyes. Yvette is looking at him with the most devastatingly tender expression he has ever seen.

She leans forward and kisses him.

Despite the fear, despite the emptiness, Rylen’s anxiety melts away and instead he holds Yvette as they melt into each other.

“Rylen,” she murmurs against his lips, breathless. Fingers run up and along his back, drawing him closer to her.

He hums and reaches up to cup her face, to deepen the kiss until he can taste the inside of her mouth. This woman, the one he loves, loves him back and nothing has ever felt more exhilarating than this. He gasps at her hair, caressing her face. She leans her head to the side as he trails a lazy kiss down the side of her neck, burying his face into her shoulder. He sits there for a moment, letting her warmth seep into his bones. Relishing in the touch of her hands as they run circles over his back. He tries to memorize it all, burn it into his mind.

After a moment Yvette sighs, but it is a light, affectionate thing.

“I don’t want this to end,” she says dreamily. “I have wanted this for so long.”

“How long?” Rylen asks.

“Since before Griffin Wing,” she murmurs into his shoulder.

Rylen frowns pulling back to look at her.

“You never indicated…”

“You never looked.”

Rylen scratches at his nose.

“Yeah well, we can’t all be people experts.”

“That’s why you have me,” Yvette says grinning and Rylen gazes at her. Yes, he thinks, he does have Yvette.

But then slowly, as if appearing from a fog, the noises of camp come back into his consciousness and he becomes acutely aware of his surroundings.

A wave of reality hits him full force. Yvette must see the way his face changes because she sighs.

“We should try and get some sleep.” She says, and her hands retract. “Tomorrow is important, not just for us.”

Rylen nods. Tomorrow is not just important for them, it is important for the Inquisition, for Orlais, for Thedas. This thought grounds him. He thinks of the Inquisitor’s confidence. They have created this, and they will succeed.

Yvette will succeed.

~

The day dawns, clear and bright.

~

There is only one sequence of events that Rylen remembers from the siege, everything else is a blur.

It starts with a roar and a blighted _dragon_ flies overhead.

“Corephyeus’ demon,” he breathes, then with a wide wave of his hand he yells: “Get down!”

The small company he is leading retreat to the alcoves of the main bailey. The battlements have been secured and the wardens are in retreat, but the threat remains.

“The Inquisitor must have found Clarel.” Yvette says from somewhere behind him.

Rylen nods.

“It will be over soon.”

“It’s not over yet.” Rylen says, scanning the bailey for the best way forward. The noises of the dragon fade into the distance. It will be back, but now is the time to move.

“Secure the courtyard ahead,” he orders to the men. He leads the group as the company advances, ever aware of Yvette’s presence behind him. They emerge into the open space, battle cries in their throats.

They are met with strong resistance.

The Inquisitor might have found Clarel, but the Wardens still fight with rage in their bones and demons at their sides. He parries the sword of a warrior, keeping one eye on the bailey above them. Most of the Wardens archers are placed on the main battlements, but a few have followed them into the inner fortifications. He shoves the warrior into the wall with a boot, thrusting his sword forward until he feels it sink into his belly.

Yvette fights beside him. He does not let her leave his sight. It is a compromise of sorts.

They had taken advantage of Amelie’s last-minute wrangling to place Yvette’s regiment under Martha’s lead. Amelie had been irate to learn that Rylen was not doing the responsible thing and locking Yvette away somewhere safe. Instead, he was endorsing the ill-advised point she had to prove. Rylen had shrugged mechanically and borne the brunt of Amelie’s yelling, “If she dies, I’ll fucking kill you.”

If Yvette dies, Rylen thinks dryly, he will kill _himself_.

“He will have someone waiting for the right moment,” Yvette had explained to him that morning, after what was perhaps the worst sleep of his life. “The key is to give them the moment for just long enough, so as to know who they are before they strike.”

She squeezed his hand tightly, smiled at him determinedly and Rylen could do nothing else but nod back despite his doubts.

It is the hardest decision he has had to stick to. Every fibre of his being screams at him to get her out of danger. But Yvette survives the first push, then the second, then, when on daybreak of the second day, they make it into the fortress proper, he almost forgets about the threat and is simply glad to have her at all.

In the end, it is after the final battle that it all comes to a head.

Sweat drips down the back of his neck, his hair sticking uncomfortably to his nape, matted with blood and grime. The muscles in his arms flex and contract in practiced complement as he swings his sword. But he is tired, they all are. Yet, the battle has started to lean into their favour. One by one, the Wardens fall in the courtyard and Rylen hears in the distance, the monstrous screech of Corephyeus’ dragon dying.

He slashes his sword across the chest of another Warden.

She falls.

He looks around and suddenly there are no more Wardens to fight.

A cheer goes up from the soldiers. Rylen searches around for Yvette, a sudden panic gripping him. The panic turns to relief when he spots her.

She marches up to an archer dressed in Inquisition colours and swiftly clocks him across the jaw with the pommel end of her sword, sending him unconscious into the dirt. The men around her step back in alarm.

Yvette turns to Rylen and nods.

It takes a moment for Rylen to realize what has just happened.

He walks over and peers at the man’s face, a man he has never seen. There is no way to know to what allegiance he belongs. He knows Benoit would not be so careless.

“You’re sure?” He asks.

Yvette nods. She shows him the blood-stained rip in her shirt.

“He almost got me a few times.” She says, before crouching down to search the man’s person. “He’s been tracking me the whole time, but I wasn’t sure until then. He must have gotten desperate.”

Rylen looks at her. He opens his mouth to berate her for not telling him, for not disclosing that the danger was in their party the entire time. But one look at Yvette’s face and he closes his mouth.

“You got lucky,” he says in a low voice.

“I know.”

He stands.

“Does anyone know this man?” He asks to the surrounding men. There is a murmur of confusion as they lean in one by one to examine the face, there is a shake of heads. No one steps forward. A weight lifts from Rylen’s shoulders. At least he is not one of their own. That, he thinks, would be a keen betrayal.

He looks around as the soldiers tend to their wounds, others lying in pain, some lying still. They wait for his orders. But what else is there to order? A sort of disbelief fills his consciousness.

Is it over?

He cannot hear the dragon anymore, the sounds of battle have faded, and Yvette stand next him, bruised and battered, but her would-be assassin bleeding out from a broken nose.

Is this how it ends?

The sounds of marching meets Rylen’s ears. He turns, and to his dismay Yvette’s father marches into the courtyard, a handful of chevaliers at his back.

No, this is how it ends.

Benoit’s eyes slide over the party before coming to rest on Yvette.

“How wonderful to see you still alive my daughter,” he drawls, not even attempting to hide the disparagement in his tone. “And it would seem the battle is over. Your Inquisitor has prevailed.”

Yvette licks her chapped lips, stepping aside to show him the unconscious soldier.

“You man was sloppy.”

Benoit lets out a low chuckle, far too at ease for Rylen to feel entirely comfortable. The battle is over, but the threat remains indefinitely.

 _“My_ man?” He says. “You must be mistaken Yvette.”

Yvette rolls her eyes.

“I have no desire to play the Game with you,” she says, walking past Rylen to plant herself in front of her father. “Let us end this.”

A panic hits Rylen in the gut as she crouches into a ready stance and draws her sword. She wouldn’t.

“ _La mort avant le déshonneur_.”

Benoit cocks his head and laughs incredulously. She would.

“You challenge _me_?” He says, almost in disbelief and there are some glances among his men. “This is _very_ irregular Yvette.”

“Fight me if you value whatever honour you still possess,” Yvette says, ignoring his comment.

A distinct murmuring breaks out among the chevaliers now. Rylen notes, with some dark satisfaction, that Benoit stands uncomfortably now. He clears his throat.

“And for what slight is this challenge posed?” He asks, dark anger underlying his tone.

“For the attempt on my life,” says Yvette in a clear voice. “I will have satisfaction. For my mother.”

Benoit looks at her for a long moment. Rylen notices the looks that are traded between Benoit’s men. It would seem not all of them fully understand what is going on. Benoit notices too and scowls.

“And your terms?” He says.

Yvette stares at him carefully.

“My life.”

Rylen grips the pommel of his sword so lightly that his nails begin to dig into his palm. There are glances from some of _his_ men now. They stare at him and he sees what is in their eyes. Do something, they implore. Rylen clenches his jaw. It physically pains him to not to step forward, to take her place, to stop the madness, to do _anything_.

But that is not the deal he has made.

_Trust me._

Benoit’ shoulders heave with a deep sigh. There is something regretful about the tone of it, but mostly there is anger.

“Very well, if this is how you choose to die so be it.” He says, readying his sword. _“La mort avant le déshonneur_.”

The duel is visceral.

Yvette is the first to strike, but it is a glancing blow. A mere opening of proceedings.

Benoit stalks round her, steady on his feet, towering in his plume of feathers and his helm.

They circle each other, trading blows again, again and again. They are both already exhausted, this much is obvious. Rylen thinks back to the single-minded discipline Yvette has always applied to her training. He prays to the Maker that it will give her the edge now.

But even as he thinks this, Yvette footwork gets just out of time, just a moment and Benoit strikes with his great sword. It arches down, hitting her shield, a moment before she would have been clear.

Yvette yelps.

Her arm flicks backward violently, there is a sickening pop and it hangs uselessly at her side. Her shoulder joint protruding at a grotesque angle. Her shield drops to the floor with a clatter.

For a moment Rylen forgets how to breath.

Yvette scrambles backward, crouching defensively.

Her father advances, his sword ready.

Then.

“Come on Yvette!”

He glances to his left. The soldier looks at him, wild determination in his face.

“Yeah show that arsehole what for!”

He looks to his right, another soldier, hands balled into fists.

For a moment Rylen is taken aback, but then he grins at the soldiers.

There are no rules against moral support in the Orlesian honour code. And if there is, well fuck them.

“This is your fight to win Yvette!” He barks. “Don’t bloody let him run away with it!”

A couple of Benoit’s senior captain glare at him from behind their masks. Murmurs break out and all of a sudden shouts cry out from both sides, Orlesian and Common being slung across the duelling ground. A couple of the rowdier ones jump and heave and for a moment Rylen panics, fearing an all-out fight.

Benoit backs up, he shrugs off the notes of encouragement from his men.

“ _Calmez-vous les imbéciles!_ ”

The noise lessens.

Yvette looks around, a new sort of determination forming on her face as she revels in the shouts of support from her men, her _friends_. She shakes out her sword arm. Rylen watches as a light of madness sparks in her eye and with almost no hesitation, she reaches up relocates her arm back into place with a sickening crunch. She screams as she does it. But it is a scream of guttural determination and it only serves to stack fuel onto the already burning fire of the regiment. There is a cheer, a cheer that Rylen realizes _he_ is leading.

Benoit stares at her in disbelief as she picks up her shield.

If Rylen could see his face, he would swear he was snarling.

The Chevalier lunges forward in pure, unthinking rage.

It is a mistake.

Yvette steps to the side, narrowly missing another swing but ready this time. She turns him round, drives her sword through the gap in his trunk’s plate armour and into the flesh beneath.

Benoit grunts, a breathless sort of exhale and teeters on his feet.

Yvette removes the blade with a slick squelch and steps outside of his range swiftly. She eyes him.

There is silence.

Then, Benoit drops to a knee and clutches his side. Through his fingers, Rylen can see the steady trickily of blood that has begun to seep through his gambeson underneath. A devastating blow, but not, Rylen thinks, a mortal one.

“Do you cede?” Yvette asks, her voice pained, but steady. She clutches her arm at a right angle across her chest. Despite her heroics, it is still useless. “Or will you make me kill you just to spite me?”

Benoit’s voice is low, pained, as he looks up at her through his mask. They stare at each other for a long moment.

“You would have made a fine son,” Benoit says.

Yvette blinks at him, eyes hard.

“I have made a finer daughter than you’ll ever deserve.”

Benoit laughs despite his state and nods at the ground.

“Take your life,” he says bitterly and lurches to his feet, standing tall despite the pool of blood at his feet. He looks at Rylen for a moment, something assessing in his gaze. “Fall out,” he says, and his men fall back into formation, filtering out the courtyard and into the cool desert night.

Rylen looks across at Yvette who is watching as her father leaves. She breathes hard and wears an expression of wary hopefulness.

She turns her gaze to his and smiles.

~

The days after a battle are the worst.

After hours, days spent fighting, strategizing and losing soldiers exhaustion begins to seep into the bones. But there is still more fighting, more strategizing and more loss, it is merely of a different, more insidious kind.

The days after Adamant are much like this.

They lose more men, despite the Inquisitors best efforts. Varric Tethras gets into a very public and very heated argument with Stroud over the decision to leave Hawke in the fade. Cullen doesn’t sleep for 2 days as he tries to wrangle the errant Wardens, now exiled, into order. Rylen catches him staring very intently at his Lyrium kit one evening before he sets Yvette on him and sends him to bed. Like each time before it, it is all, overwhelmingly, exhausting.

Except, this time, Yvette is by his side.

There is no time to even _talk_ about the new freedoms she has finally earned. But Rylen knows her well and he can see the lightness in her demeanour. And, despite everything, he too, finds that a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He finds himself eager, like a teenager, to get the army back to Griffin Wing and revel in whatever future their relationship might bring.

She is alive, and she is his.

It makes everything just that little bit easier to bare.

~

A courier arrives the day after the Chevaliers depart the camp. He has a single letter, and it is for Yvette.

“I might need to borrow money for boots,” she says, handing him the parchment.

 _That was a clever little stunt you pulled Yvette. As promised, you have your life, but do not expect my name and do not don my héraldique_ _again. If we meet again, you would do well to remember that I am not a forgiving man._

“Looks like you have no excuse to wear that stupid mask,” Rylen says.

Yvette grins.

“How terrible.”

Later, he finds her crying in the war tent. He holds her close as she grieves over her lost family. And though he doesn’t understand why she would, he understands that she does. When she stops sobbing into his shirt, he kisses her softly and tells her everything will be okay eventually.

The next day, Yvette is smiling again.

~

“Was it your plan the entire time?” He asks her, a day after they set back on the road for Griffin Wing. They finally have a moment alone, one that is not plagued by the millions of tasks they both need to accomplish. The company is quiet, still exhausted, but less so. There is not much anyone can do while on the road, so Rylen jogs up beside her and quickly squeezes her hand.

“The duel with Benoit?” She says, looking at him. Her fingers linger on his own for a moment.

Rylen nods.

“I had hoped the chance might come,” Yvette says, “but it was not a sure thing.”

“So, what was your plan?” He asks, not sure if he really wants to know. But it is behind them now.

“Not to get killed,” Yvette says with a straight face.

Rylen narrows his eyes. After a moment Yvette’s lip quirks.

“Yes, the plan was to bait him into a duel,” she admits. “I knew he’d want to see what became of me, so as long as his man didn’t get me, I knew I’d get a chance.”

“But how do you know he won’t send someone after you?”

“I challenged him in front of his men,” Yvette says. “It might not last forever, but not even my father would risk dishonour by killing his daughter after a public duel for her life.”

Yvette has explained the honour code to him before. He’s never given it much credit, but now he thinks he could kiss whatever Chevalier came up with the blighted thing.

“Quite the gamble,” Rylen says. “Please never do that again.”

Yvette looks at him with a wicked glint in her eye.

“And what would you do if I did?” She says in a low, sultry tone. “Tie me up perhaps?”

Rylen turns such a deep shade of red, that when Amelie appears over a minute later, she asks if he’s gotten sunburnt.

~

They lie on the battlements under a blanket of stars.

It is well past midnight and the keep below them is silent. When Yvette suggested a walk around the perimeter of the keep to clear their heads, he had agreed. When she kissed him, he responded in kind. He is becoming familiar with her body now. The places she likes to be kissed, the patches of skin that draw particularly heady noises from her throat. But the keep is not exactly private, and he is still her superior, so they go slow.

Now, an hour later, they still lie together, silent, but sometimes making conversation. Rylen has never felt lighter than he does now.

He would do well to sleep, he thinks, but there is something still fleeting in the feeling of Yvette by his side like this, like if he went to sleep, he might wake up and find she was gone. There is already talk of the next battle, the next war to be waged. The Inquisitor is determined to strike Corephyeus down as quickly as possible. Stroud has already departed for Weisshaupt, but not before taking Rylen aside, placing a hand on his shoulder and saying, quite to Rylen’s surprise, “You’re a good man Rylen.”

The future burns brightly. But in this moment Rylen lies and lets the warmth from Yvette’s body by his side seep into him and forgets about the next step. He is just grateful to have this moment.

Yvette’s thumb circles the back of his hand slowly as they both gaze up at the sky.

“I have been thinking,” she says. “I need to get out of Orlais for a while.”

Rylen turns his head to look at her.

“Leave Griffin Wing?”

“Yes.”

Disappointment whacks him in the gut, and he turns his face away from hers.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says, and he can hear her turn onto her side to face him. “Why leave when we only just got started?”

Rylen turns back to face her.

“Yes, why?” he says reaching out to caress her face, eyes roaming. “Why leave?”

“You know we could never continue together, if we were _together_.” She says. “Not properly, we are both too…straight for that.”

Rylen does know this; he has always known this.

“Why did you think I avoided this for so long.”

Yvette hums, a small smile on her face.

“You don’t want to know why I think you avoided this for so long,” she says.

“Rude.”

He reaches out to poke her, but she wriggles so much he just ends up pinning her under him.

“Cullen mentioned a possible expedition to the Frostbank Basin,” she says, a little breathless looking up at him. “He didn’t promise anything but there was the implication that I could lead it.”

Rylen frowns, Cullen, of course, that blighted fool would sabotage him after being so invested in his love life. He wracks his brain for where this so-called Basin could be and comes ups short. Yvette looks up at him with wry amusement.

“South of the Frostbanks,” she says, “hence the name. You know for a military commander; you are pretty awful at geography.”

“Again,” Rylen complains, with a roll of his eyes. “Rude.”

He leans down and kisses her. After a minute they pull apart and he rolls off her again, sitting up.

“You’re right,” he says with a sigh. “We can’t be together and _together_ ; you barely listen to me as it is.”

Yvette laughs as she sits up. She reaches down to grasp his hand in her own.

“It won’t be forever,” she says. “I don’t expect the Inquisition will be able to maintain a hold Orlais while Celene and Gaspard still live. Eventually we’ll be together again, and we can write.”

Rylen looks at her. She is right, but it still hurts a little.

“You promise?”

“Of course, I promise,” Yvette says. “Trust me.”

Rylen leans his forehead against her own.

“I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all! I hope everyone who has read it has enjoyed the story, it has certainly been gratifying to actually complete a full story even if it's short! Onward to the next thing :)


End file.
